Not Worth More than Rubies
by DJ Caligula
Summary: When an ambitious Haradan thief comes to Rohan to steal a priceless necklace, she becomes co-conspirators with the infamous Grima Wormtongue. On hiatus.
1. Chapter the First

NOT WORTH MORE THAN RUBIES  
  
*** Chapter the First- In which our Heroine is found by the Riders of Rohan, and makes the Acquaintance of a Marshal of the Riddermark. ***  
  
Her face was filthy and smeared with blood, but the dark girl stood proudly in the middle of the deserted crossroads, waiting. Clad in a long frock of emerald green, with her long black curls whipping in the cold northern wind, she looked- despite her disarray- as if she were some exotic princess awaiting her knight and champion to rescue her. Yet the crossroads were barren and desolate, adorned merely with an empty gallows, and the acrid smoke- and smell of burned flesh- from an orcish attack still lingered like foul sickness in the air.  
  
Yet despite all this, there was no other place in the world that Madiya bat- Laylah- trickster, swindler and rogue- would rather be. For the Rubies of Rohan awaited her. The Rubies for which she had long hungered, and dreamed.  
  
Madiya, bronze-skinned daughter of the burning sands, considered herself quite an accomplished thief, and with her black eyes, full lips, and dashing figure, she was comely- and light-fingered- enough to charm her victims, as well as all the gold pieces out of their purses. Although born and raised in the farthest reaches of Harad, she had lived in the North for some time- mainly swindling, picking pockets and fencing stolen merchandise in Minas Tirith. While relaxing one day from her larcenous activities in one of the libraries of the great city, she chanced to see the most magnificent painting. This painting was a portrait of some long- dead Steward's Lady, gracious and lovely as the fairest swan; but what fascinated Madiya was the lovingly painted ruby necklace about the woman's neck. It was a delicate choker of mithril filigree, set with five rubies, each the size of a large coin, and each cut and polished like an emerald.  
  
It had had utterly entranced her. She had returned to the library, day after day, just to gaze upon it. She loved to imagine that she was the lady in the painting, with her graceful carriage and lofty brow, and her air of dignity, nobility and beauty. The lady wore her rubies with an air of entitlement, and Madiya knew with certainty, that with those jewels about her neck, her life had been charmed indeed. Such a lady never would have had to worry if she could earn her next meal, or if she would be knifed in the back by another thief, or if the city guard would haul her off to the prisons. When she finally asked the librarian about the ruby necklace, she was informed that in ancient times it was known as the Rubies of Mirrian; yet after it was given to a warrior-queen of Rohan for heroic services rendered to Gondor, it was known as the Rubies of Rohan.  
  
"The Rubies of Rohan," she had breathed.  
  
The near-sighted librarian had then looked at her sharply. "You're not from around here, are you? The Rubies are famous throughout all the land!"  
  
She'd quickly made excuses for her ignorance, then left the library before the librarian grew more suspicious. Yet ever since then, Madiya had become obsessed with the necklace she had seen in the ancient portrait. She researched, studied, came up with a strategy, planned a route, and eventually made the journey west from populated Gondor to the plains of Rohan.  
  
She would not rest until the Rubies were hers.  
  
Which was why Madiya bat-Laylah found herself standing out by this dismal crossroads in the middle of nowhere, in one of the best gowns she had ever owned, anxiously watching the approach of a patrol of the Riders of the Riddermark. It was true, she thought, watching the distant cloud of dust grow larger, that the unlikeliest places hid the most valuable treasures. Who in his right mind would dream that a backwards kingdom like this would conceal some of the most beautiful jewels ever known to mortal man? She continued to hold her ground, but her heart was beating fast, and her palms were sweaty. The Riders- the Rohirrim, as these Northern barbarians called themselves- had arrived right on time, as regular as clockwork, or the hot desert winds that ravaged her old home of Bozisha-Dar.  
  
She had been told several times, back in Minas Tirith, that these people of Rohan had grown suspicious of late, due to the constant state of warfare on their borders. Something to do with politics, wizards and whatnot; Madiya found it tedious to remember such things. But- although it was half- hidden under her dress- she nervously fingered the old bronze hamsa amulet that her mother had given her long ago, right before she had died.  
  
Her mother had loved that amulet. It was shaped like the hand of the Goddess, and was supposed to protect one from the evil eye. Some people might say that was a foolish superstition, but she didn't care. She was not a warrior- she was a mere city rat, armed only with a dagger. Not to mention, she thought apprehensively, she was clearly a Southerner, of the Haradrim; and these bloodless Northern folk were suspicious of anyone who didn't look like them.  
  
She calmed herself, and thought of what would probably happen. The warriors in the patrol might scout around, to see if she was tricking them into an ambush; but once they saw that she was not, they would probably take her back to the palace of their king, in their capital city of Edoras. Perhaps they would mumble about her being a spy, but she had talked her way out of such situations before, and she was sure she could do so again. In any case, the horsemen were galloping up to her, the hooves of their mounts trampling the earth, and the pennants and horsehair plumes of their helmets flying in the wind. The metal of their armor glittered even under the dismal overcast skies; and to quell her sudden doubts about this venture, Madiya hurriedly assured herself that they were no doubt chivalrous and steadfast examples of manhood, always ready to help a damsel in distress.  
  
She knew her cue. Without missing a beat, Madiya staggered, kicked aside her soot-streaked sack of clothing, and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. "Oh, alack!" she cried. "Ah, me! Lords, I crave your help- for I am, indeed, in sore need of your succor!"  
  
The captain of the horsemen wheeled his horse towards her. At least, she thought he was the captain. Unlike the other men, who wore scale or chainmail, he wore a fancy leather-and-metal breastplate of an intricate design; his helmet was engraved and chased with gold; and at his side was slung a magnificent sword, the hilt entwined with golden serpents. Madiya thought of how much she could get for that sword at the bazaar back home, and she practically salivated at the thought of all that lovely, lovely money. This tall young man had to be a nobleman; perhaps even a prince, she thought with some pleasure. Atop his white charger, he was fierce and ruddy and hale, with expressive eyes and long hair the color of dirty straw.  
  
"Lady!" he demanded, in the harsh accents of these parts. "What are you doing here? Where is your escort?"  
  
Tears began to course down Madiya's dirt-streaked face. "My escort, Lord, is dead," she sobbed, "slaughtered by the orcs! We were heading along the Great West Road, to Minas Tirith, when we were ambushed by the foul beasts. I was knocked unconscious during the fray- they thought I was dead. Yonder rises the plume of smoke from the wreckage!"  
  
And she pointed further west to the very real remains of an unfortunate caravan that had been ambushed by some of the orcish brigands that had been recently plundering these lands. Even though the men at the village tavern had been completely drunk, they had not steered her wrong when they told her how travelers were attacked near Hangman's Crossroads all the time, and that the Riders were always patrolling this area to lend them arms and protection. Very effective protection, thought Madiya cynically. She imagined the caravan would not mind being claimed by her; as they were all dead to a man, what difference would it make?  
  
"Saruman's doing," the captain said with loathing, glaring at the smoke.  
  
"Those orcs," muttered a heavily bearded companion, "have been growing ever more bold."  
  
The captain turned back to her. "Lady," he said gravely, "I grieve for your loss. I am afraid to say that this tragedy is not without precedent- especially in this country, as of late. But if you will pardon me, I would ask why one of Haradan blood is sojourning across Rohan."  
  
"A fair question, Lord," said Madiya. She straightened her back proudly, as if she really were a high-born maiden, born and raised in silken luxury, and not the mere daughter of a swarthy Southron tavern dancer. "I am indeed of Far Harad, from the city Bozisha-Dar, that is called Harshport in the Westron tongue; my father was of that city, but my mother was of Gondorian blood, and she was born in Minas Tirith." Only a small lie; for it was actually her long-vanished father who was from Gondor, and not her mother. But who was to know, or care? "Due to various changes in fortune, I have come to live with my mother's family; and- whilst I and my cousins were returning from a long visit in Eriador- these monsters attacked us!"  
  
"Where in Eriador?" the captain's bearded companion snapped.  
  
"Tharbad, sir."  
  
"Tharbad, eh? I'm surprised there are still people living in that ruined place! What were you doing in Tharbad?"  
  
"We had gone to a wedding. We have relatives there."  
  
"You seem to have relatives in a great many places, my Lady," the companion said suspiciously.  
  
Madiya's back stiffened. "My mother's father was a merchant, sir. His trade took him to many far-flung lands! And- though I see now that it was wildly foolish to take such a risk traveling- we had thought if we had enough armed men among us-" She sagged, and covered her face with her hands, as if in abject despair.  
  
"Well, that may be so. I know little of the ways of merchants," the bearded soldier growled.  
  
"Enough," the captain barked. "Aldor, the lady has survived a devastating loss; it is not meet to interrogate her in such a fashion!"  
  
At such a reprimand, the soldier bowed his head. "Yes, your Highness," he muttered. "Milady, I crave your pardon. But in such strange times, where the unthinkable often occurs, one must be careful of who one trusts." And he gave the captain a significant look.  
  
"Aldor, it is not necessary to remind me of Wormtongue's cautionings again," the captain replied coldly.  
  
Madiya felt a twinge of alarm at this; but instead, she merely clasped her fingers over her mouth and made her eyes extra wide. "Your Highness?" she gasped.  
  
"Yes," said the blond captain, as regally as one could wish. "I am Éomer Éadig, son of Éomund of Eastfold, Prince of Rohan and Third Marshal of the Riddermark."  
  
So her captain was actually far more than a captain! Madiya was glad she recognized his name; it at least proved that she had done her research. This young man, Éomer, was the younger of the princes of Rohan; the elder was his cousin, the crown prince Théodred, the son of the king himself. She curtseyed deeply. "My Prince. I am Lady Madiya bat-Ahmaadi ibn- al'Azishan- lately of Bozisha-Dar." With meticulous dignity, she wiped the tears from her eyes. "I wish I could say that I was delighted to make your acquaintance, but I am afraid that I wish to the depths of my soul that we could have met under different circumstances."  
  
"I reciprocate your sentiment, my Lady." The prince placed a gauntleted hand over his breast, and bowed his head. "Allow us to take back you to Edoras; there you may rest before your journey back to Minas Tirith."  
  
"Edoras," breathed Madiya. "Oh, thank you, your Majesty. Thank you so much for your great kindness. As the poets themselves say, 'More welcome than a draught of water to the panting gazelle, is a gentle word to the one so weary of life.'" Her voice throbbed with emotion as she pressed a fluttering hand to her throat. "As I am weary- after having witnessed such- such unspeakable horror..."  
  
She then closed her eyes, as if in gratitude. But all she could think of, behind those closed lids, were the rubies that awaited her, the rubies she had dreamed of, for the past six months. The famed Rubies of Rohan; that ancient necklace of blood-red jewels that would soon be hers... All hers.  
  
***Author's Note: Next stop, Edoras! 


	2. Chapter the Second

***Chapter the Second- In which our Heroine comes to the Capital of the Kingdom of Rohan, and is Introduced to a Princess of Some Determination.***  
  
"This is Edoras, my Lady." As Prince Éomer tugged the reins, he called back to her, against the shrieking sounds of the frigid winds that whipped across the steppes. "Capital city of the Horse Lords, and jewel of Rohan!"  
  
"Jewel?" she wanted to yell. "More like a piece of dung!" But she held her tongue- and said, merely, in a voice sweet as honey:  
  
"It is truly a balm to my tired eyes, O Prince." She was glad, at least, that she was sitting right behind him, because she grimaced wildly. She was glad she hadn't been expecting much, yet even then, Edoras was much less than anything she could have imagined.  
  
She supposed she had been spoiled by the sights of Bozisha-Dar, caravanserai supreme and gem of the Raj; Umbar, vast teeming port of the Corsair Kings, and the towering seven-walled citadel of Minas Tirith, all of which qualified as actual cities. One could hardly call this hole a city, Madiya thought crossly. Like a flea which clung stubbornly to the back of a mangy dog, Edoras clung to the side of a steep hill; and as the prince and his men rode up it, through the mud and garbage-strewn lanes, the townspeople ran out of their thatched huts to gape at the warriors in their gilded helms and glittering armor. They goggled especially at her- she must look incredibly exotic to these white-skinned folk with their dreary rags and hair like dry grass. She even heard one child screech, "Mama! Mama! What's wrong with that lady? Did the sun burn her?"  
  
Well, she'd been living in the northern lands for almost five years- she should be used to that reaction by now. Madiya sighed.  
  
As they stopped at the foot of a steep staircase that led to the palace at the top of the hill, Prince Éomer, ordering his men to halt, dismounted, with much metallic clanking. Madiya was about to get off herself, but she remembered just in time she was supposed to be a lady. She waited for him to offer his hand to her. When he did so, she sweetly smiled, murmured a demure "thank you," grasped his manly fingers and alighted daintily onto the ground.  
  
At least, that had been the plan. As she was hardly as graceful as an elf, as soon as she stepped on solid earth again, she stumbled- badly. As her posterior was killing her, and her legs- O Goddess!- felt as stiff as two pieces of wood, she supposed she was just lucky she didn't fall flat on her rear. "My lady!" the prince exclaimed. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes, yes," she said quickly, regaining her balance. "Just a bit tired, that's all. From that hellish ordeal that constantly haunts my innermost thoughts! But you- your Highness- you are more than kind to me-!"  
  
"It is nothing," the prince said gruffly, taking off his helmet as he peered intently down at the ground, "to come to the aid of a maiden. Especially one as, er, lovely as yourself." And- under the grime and scraggly beard- he actually blushed.  
  
By the Triune Goddess, Madiya thought, amazed. He's acting like a tongue- tied adolescent! She then remembered, rather abruptly, how she had kept her arms about his Royal Highness for much of the journey. Obviously it had affected him much more than it had affected her. But, she was pleased, none the less. It was rather flattering to have caught the eye of a real live prince, even if he was prince of a dunghole such as this (and although he was hardly correct about her being a maiden).  
  
"Oh," she murmured, "your Highness is ever gracious! To compliment a poor damsel so profusely. Your chivalry knows no bounds!" She fluttered her eyelashes flirtatiously, as the prince grew ever more crimson. Indeed, he had been chivalrous to allow her to ride behind him, but she was not used to spending that much time in the saddle. But- although her backside was still protesting at her treatment of it- Madiya forebore a groan, as that would be far too plebeian. She merely proceeded, with noble nonchalance, to examine the regal residence in front of her. "But hark!" she exclaimed, turning from the blushing prince. "What yon great building is that?"  
  
"That is the Golden Hall of the Meduseld," said Prince Éomer quickly, as if relieved to change the subject. He spread out his hand towards the steeply gabled wooden building, where the façade and columns of the porch were carved and gilded with an elaborate, interlocking maze of vines and sinuous serpents. "Have you not heard of it? Is it not the wonder of the land?"  
  
The Golden Hall was exceptionally impressive, even more so considering that the town around it was so dismal. Madiya wondered briefly how much it had cost to build it, and how much it took to keep it up. No doubt all the money came out of the pockets of the adoring populace. "I have indeed heard of it, my prince," she replied sweetly. "And it makes me wonder indeed."  
  
And at that moment, a young girl ran down the stairs towards them. "Éomer!" she cried. "My dearest brother! You're back!"  
  
The prince turned towards the girl, his face brightening. "Sister! You are a sight for sore eyes!"  
  
The girl- Princess Éowyn, if Madiya remembered her Rohan royalty correctly- stopped in front of them. This one, she thought sharply, is the one in possession of the necklace; so it would behoove her to make nice with her. Not to mention, pay attention to her every move.  
  
Madiya supposed she was about nineteen or so. Like the heroine of a northern romance, she had milky skin, doe-like eyes, and long golden hair, rippling down her back, as the poets would say, in seven tresses like horse- tails, or a veil of light. For all her beauty, though, this young noblewoman also possessed the most depressingly virginal air. She even wore white- it was an elaborate gown of fine-combed wool, with long sleeves that cascaded to the ground, and much swirling trapunto-style embroidery on the bodice. Madiya thought: I bet some old woman lost her eyesight sewing that. I could get, hmmm, a hundred dinars for it? But as the princess was talking, she curbed her mental commentary and made sure to look attentive.  
  
"You have returned safe and sound!" The princess was saying. "I thank the powers above for answering my prayers. Did you run into any orcs on your scouting mission?" When Éomer shook his head, she turned and gazed at Madiya, her green-gray eyes wide and questioning. "But I see, dear brother, that you also ran into something else!"  
  
"Indeed, Éowyn. Instead of orcs, rather the survivor of an orcish raid: the Lady Madiya." The prince gestured to her. "We found her in Westfold, at the Hangman's Crossroad some leagues from the Deeping Coomb. The monsters had slaughtered her entire party," he continued grimly. "I told you that these foul slaves of Saruman grow more daring with each day...!"  
  
The princess gave her brother a worried glance; then turned to Madiya, with both her hands extended. "Dearest Lady Madiya," she said, gently and solemnly. "I am Éowyn, sister of Éomer; and sister-daughter to King Théoden. Much wickedness has torn our fair land asunder, and although many have suffered as you, it distresses me to no end, that you have been forced to undergo such anguish in the Kingdom of Rohan. Please be our guest at the Golden Hall; please partake of our wine and bread and warm yourself by our hearth-fire. My home is your home."  
  
Madiya clasped the princess's hands. "My lady," she declared, "I am honored to enter your gracious abode. There is no obligation more blessed and revered than that of hospitality. As the poets say, 'The guests' slave am I, 'tis true, as long as he bides with me/ Although in my nature also no trait of the slave is shown.' For your benevolence, my princess, may the gods smile upon you, and make sweet with milk and honey all the days of your life."  
  
She must have recited her lines well, because the princess smiled warmly at her. "Brother," she said to the prince, "I must take Lady Madiya to the guest quarters, where she may be able to rest and refresh herself, after her ordeal. I am sure that you have things to attend to elsewhere."  
  
"Indeed I do," said Prince Éomer. He bowed. "My lady. I look forward to your company at the banquet this evening." And with that, he was off- to the stables, or the armory, or the warriors' quarters, or whatever suitably virile places that princes in these parts went to in their spare time. Certainly, he would scarcely be lounging on a divan, stuffing sweetmeats in his mouth as he critiqued last night's performance at the Peach Blossom Theater. As she imagined Prince Éomer in a silk robe, munching on candied pomegranate seeds and going on about how overweight the dancers were, Madiya had to bite her lip from giggling.  
  
She walked up the staircase, as Princess Éowyn pressed her for questions about her life story, as well as her "ordeal." Madiya responded in much the same manner that she had with Prince Éomer, but when she saw what a good audience she had, she couldn't help but add a bit of embroidery to her tale. "The orcs took us by surprise!" she cried, waving her arms for dramatic embellishment. "With their axes and swords, our men were cut down like grass falling to the scythe! With every sweep of a villainous blade, a severed head flew; with every chop of a perfidious axe, a spouting trunk tumbled, bleeding, onto the ground. They were merciless! Even the strongest, bravest warriors fell like trees toppling in the forest- their eyes were glazed, their mouths open with horror as they fell to the blood- soaked earth, their heels drumming in agony as they breathed their last. And the children! Oh, my Lady, that was but the worse sight of all! I remember one, a fair-haired boy, a blue-eyed wagoner's child, who had been gathering pansies in the field but yesterday; and the last thing I saw, before I was knocked unconscious, was how his blade had been crushed into splinters by these despicable monsters; and that he had been beaten to his knee!..."  
  
"Oh!" Princess Éowyn gasped. "What ghastly events you have witnessed, Lady Madiya! If I been there with my sword-" And the fair maiden's face contorted. "I would have taught those filthy brutes a lesson or two!"  
  
Madiya looked incredulously at her royal host, who seemed so slender and fragile in her virginal white frock. "You can fight- with a sword?"  
  
"Very well too." The princess drew herself up proudly. "I am a shield maiden of Rohan. I am as doughty a warrior as any man ever born."  
  
Madiya scoured her mind for an appropriate way to respond to such a definite-sounding statement, when Éowyn said flatly:  
  
"You don't believe me."  
  
"What?" Madiya exclaimed. "No, your Highness, I- am not doubting your veracity, it's just that- I am so utterly inept with any weaponry myself, that I find it hard to imagine how another lady can be so- talented with it." Oh, Goddess, she was sticking her foot in her mouth... "I mean, it's not that hard to believe, since you are a Northerner, and from Rohan, and raised by men. I mean- since it is mostly men that I see around here- and very few ladies, and I suppose- I mean, I suppose- oh, forgive me, your Highness, I have offended you!"  
  
"You have not offended me." Éowyn turned around, looking out over the windswept plains that surrounded Edoras. "You are merely speaking your mind, Lady Madiya, and that is not an ill trait to possess. One wishes that there were more honest people in the world."  
  
Honest! At that, she felt herself turning red. "My lady, you are, ah, very kind to say that-"  
  
"It is the truth. One should not be complimented for saying the plain truth." The princess looked at the cloudy sky, and the hazy, snow-capped mountains in the distance. "It is true, Lady Madiya, that I was raised by men. In my younger days, I was trained to wear a corselet and wield a blade; but now that I have become a woman, they seem to take- discomfort at this desire of mine, to continue as a warrior. They now insist on sending me off to do women's things- tending the household, supervising the servants, acting as chatelaine. But I was taught to use a sword!" Her voice grew thick with emotion, as her fists clenched at her side. "And, by all that's holy, I shall fight with a sword, in defense of my people!"  
  
Madiya stared at the princess, who was trembling, from her fit of passion.  
  
"I believe you," she said with utter honesty- which was rare for her indeed. "Your Highness, I have no doubt that when you set your mind to something, you shall do it. And- I wish you the best. I truly do."  
  
The princess gazed at her, her round eyes brimming with- what was it- gratitude? "Lady Madiya," she said quietly, "you have traveled much, I know, and I have grown up- only here, in this small, tucked-away corner of the world. But you must believe me. This land is my home; and although it may not look that much to one who has seen so many greater sights- it is all the earth to me. I know this country like the palm of my hand; and if darkness were to overtake it-" She closed her eyes, just for a moment- yet when she opened them, she had a look of stark, blank despair on her face, that made Madiya's blood run cold. "I would sooner die."  
  
"Oh, my lady," she choked.  
  
"Lady Madiya, I thank the gods that you were brought here. We do not get guests very often- especially not ladies." She raised a delicate eyebrow, with some amusement. "I look forward to extending the hospitality of Edoras, and continuing our acquaintance. I should dearly love to hear more stories of your homeland, and of Minas Tirith..."  
  
At that moment Madiya felt more acutely miserable than she had in a long time. Why couldn't this Princess be a silly, stupid bitch, like most high- ranking ladies she had met? Instead, she was a strong, admirable young woman, stuck, rather unfortunately, in a kingdom that was on the brink of a savage, all-out war. And this was the very woman from whom she had to steal the Rubies of Rohan. The very woman who was so kindly offering her the use of her household. For the sake of the Rubies, she was going to break the sacred rules of hospitality! With a sick, sinking feeling, she could well imagine what her mother would have said about that. All of a sudden, Madiya felt a surge of self-hatred. She began to wish that she had never had thought up this adventure.  
  
But, look here, dearest, she told herself angrily, the only reason why this Éowyn is giving you the time of day is that she thinks that you, too, are of gentle birth. If she knew better- if she knew you were the daughter of a tavern-dancer and a Gondorian sailor- she'd treat you like a dung-hauler. These women are all like that, no matter how noble they seem. Steel yourself. You must get those Rubies. Can you imagine what a price they'll fetch in the Court of Sellers? Ancient rubies and mithril-work, all intricate dwarven handicraft. Why, you'll be able to buy a mansion in the Katedrala! With carpets and cool fountains and marble tiles... you'll be able to spend the rest of your life drinking wine and plucking the guzla. Think of that when your will grows weak, Madiya. You'll never have to starve or whore yourself again.  
  
"Lady Madiya?"  
  
Madiya suddenly snapped out of her reverie. "Oh, um, I am quite sorry, your highness. I was merely, ah, lost in thought."  
  
"I do hope that nothing is the matter," said the princess with some concern.  
  
"I was merely thinking of the events of the day." She sighed. "And how I am glad to be here, finally, in a place of warmth and hospitality-"  
  
"Indeed," a voice behind them hissed. "The Golden Hall is, as ever, a place of much hospitality."  
  
Startled, Éowyn and Madiya whirled around to see a black-clad figure, emerging- like a cloud of greasy smoke- from behind one of the gilt-carved columns of the palace portico.  
  
"Gríma Wormtongue!" breathed Éowyn, her eyes widening in horror.  
  
***Author's Note: *grin* How's that for a cliffhanger? 


	3. Chapter the Third

*** Chapter the Third- In Which Our Heroine is Introduced to an Advisor of Ill Repute. ***  
  
Éowyn turned pale and Madiya quickly touched her hamsa amulet, but the strange man seemed oblivious to their alarm. "Do I... disturb you and your young friend, my lady?" he murmured.  
  
A look of loathing spread across the princess's face. "We were not discussing anything of importance, Wormtongue," she said with glacial accents.  
  
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Your matters are your own concern, my lady. But surely- you must not object to introducing me to your guest." With boneless grace, he rustled towards them- he gave the impression that he had no feet, that like the sea monsters of eld, he wended his way on tentacles. Exquisitely, deliberately, he clasped his hands together, and cocked his head, as if awaiting the proprieties to commence.  
  
A fascinated Madiya watched his dance of well-considered movements, while the tight-lipped Éowyn made the introductions. "This is the Lady Madiya, whom my brother rescued from the pains of orcish brigandage. She is of Haradan birth, but as of late has been dwelling amidst her kinfolk in Gondor."  
  
"I am pleased to meet you, sir," she replied, bobbing a curtsey.  
  
"And this is- my uncle- the King's- advisor. Gríma Wormtongue." Éowyn said the name quickly, and with distaste, as if admitting to a foul disease.  
  
Foul or not, though, Madiya found herself frankly staring at the man. She thought in amazement: Allat, Manat, and Al-Uzza! How great You are, O Blessed Goddess; only You, In Your magnificence, could create a being so rare and grotesque! He looked like what a child would dream of, if a child chanced to dream of an evil magician. His skin was white as death, or alabaster; his hair was like the black serpent-vines, slick with moisture, that draped themselves from the giant trees of the Forest of Tears; and his eyes, deep and shadowed in their sockets, were the pale milky blue of the one born blind. He wore the most fantastic (and expensive-looking) raven-black robes, layers upon layers, thick with velvet and brocade, and topped with a bronze-flocked fur collar; a lace frill encircled his throat, and a peculiar webbing encased his arms and extended over his long, tapered ivory fingers. He smelled, not of flowers, but of a strong, gamy scent that reminded her of a dank cave, used long by animals, and where many creatures, over the years, had died.  
  
"The pleasure, Lady," Lord Gríma breathed, "is all mine." His voice reminded her of brittle leaves, falling cool and wet to the forest floor. "So you are... of the Haradrim. An interesting people."  
  
"Yes, I am indeed, sir." Conscious of the advisor's piercing appraisal, Madiya kept her countenance bland and her voice pleasant. "I am from Bozisha-Dar, in the Bozisha-Miraz, the land that your people call Far Harad. Have you heard of it?" The last had been asked out of sheer politeness- the chances were that he hadn't. Most people in the North were completely ignorant of any Southern geography. Someone had even once asked her how people could live in the South. For wouldn't the low-lying sun burn everyone to a crisp?  
  
But it seemed that this Gríma Wormtongue was full of surprises.  
  
"Of course," he answered dryly. "Your city lies where the river Rijesha meets the sea, in the fertile valley of the Raj. Your people call it the Port of the Dar, or the Jewel of Far Harad, or even the Gift of the Goddess that your people worship so very devoutly. Now, now, my Lady." He inclined his head, his sharp eyes hooded, and his strangely beautiful lips curving up in a smirk. "Does my knowledge take you aback?"  
  
Madiya closed her mouth quickly, which had become, during that brief recital, somewhat ajar. Why, she thought with some heat, he's a cunning little bastard, this one! No doubt he runs circles around the rest of these dolts who live in Edoras. He certainly bears a great deal of watching... "Yes, as a matter of fact, it does, my lord. But let me be the first to compliment you on your erudition." She smiled back at him, her eyes hard and unflinching. "It is not as common in the North as one would like to think."  
  
At that sally, he would have raised an eyebrow, if he had one. "Indeed! You have such a poor opinion of us Northerners then!"  
  
"My lord, my opinion little matters. I would not dream of incurring wrath by correcting the arrogant, or gaining opprobrium by reproving the wicked, no matter what their nationality. For do not the poets say, 'Reprove not the scorner, lest he hate you; reprove a wise man, and he will love you'? Especially," she added pointedly, "one who finds oneself living in foreign climes must be doubly careful not to anger anyone."  
  
"My lady, you are wise beyond your years. I can see that we shall have many... delightful discussions ahead of us. I look forward to it, with bated breath."  
  
As he peered at her, smiling inscrutably, Madiya, for some reason, found herself growing unaccountably breathless. "Yes, of course," she mumbled. "You are too kind." And as she saw him smirk again, she wanted to kick herself.  
  
"But you must excuse me for a moment," Lord Gríma interjected smoothly. "Your Highness..." He glided towards Éowyn, who, in the small interval of Madiya and the advisor's conversation, seemed to have changed herself into a statue, hiding her growing distress behind a frozen mask. "I am so sorry to tell you, but I'm afraid your beloved uncle has taken a turn for the worse. I think the very thing he needs at this moment is care from your tender, ministering hands." And with that, he placed his own hand on her arm, curving his elegant white fingers about it in an almost proprietary gesture.  
  
For a moment, Madiya thought the princess would scream, but it seemed she had too much control of herself. Instead, she gazed at Madiya, over Wormtongue's shoulder, her eyes bright with fear, and- something else. Madiya couldn't shake the feeling that she was making an appeal...  
  
Or trying to warn her.  
  
"Never mind, your highness," Madiya put in quickly. "I'll be fine. Please- go tend upon His Majesty. Lord Gríma shall escort me to the guest quarters."  
  
"Lady Madiya speaks much wisdom, Princess. Now, you'd best make haste." The advisor's pale eyes glittered. "Your uncle is waiting for you."  
  
"Thank you, Lady Madiya," Éowyn choked out, and without another word, fled into the palace. Her white gown fluttered behind her like the last glimpse of a swan's wing in midwinter- and then she was gone.  
  
Madiya then turned to Lord Gríma, to suggest that they start for her apartments. But then she saw that look on his face. He still stood there, rigid, staring at where Éowyn had vanished, looking eerily blank and lost; like, she thought suddenly, a madman who had just seen his moon disappear.  
  
But what was even stranger, was that she felt an impulsive, irrational urge to go over to him and- and- the gods only knew what. Don't be a weak- minded fool, she told herself angrily. No matter what, you must keep your wits about you! Shaking herself, Madiya touched her amulet again, and prayed fervently to the Goddess to help her finish her job and get her out of this place- alive. 


	4. Chapter the Fourth

*** If anyone's curious, since my work is being beta'd now (thanks sunandshadow!) I've been making revisions to the last few chapters. A nip here, a tuck there. It was pointed out to me that Madiya's Goddess-hand amulet resembles the white hand of Saruman- so, with that in mind, I added some dialogue reflecting this. Anyhow, enjoy! ***  
  
Chapter the Fourth- In Which Our Heroine has an Interesting Discussion with the Aforementioned Advisor.  
  
  
  
As Madiya walked behind Lord Gríma, called Wormtongue, into the dark gloom of the Golden Hall, she wondered if she really knew what in the name of the seven levels of hell she was doing. After some length, she decided that there was a strong possibility she didn't. Perhaps she had been overconfident, but she had been expecting Edoras to be populated by a great many ignorant bumpkins. Discovering the presence of this... advisor... was akin to opening a barrel of apples and finding a beautiful and very poisonous snake, entwining itself with great familiarity amidst the homely masses of fruit.  
  
As if sensing her thoughts, Lord Gríma glanced back at her. In the gathering dark, his face near glowed a ghostly white. "I find it most interesting that a lady of the Bozishnarod should find herself in the kingdom of Rohan," he said softly, intimately, although his voice echoed through the throne room. "You are, dear lady, so very far from your homeland."  
  
Madiya gave him a stiff smile. She lad left her old country out of boredom, anger, and frustration, but after five years in the northlands she was beginning to miss the Bozisha-Miraz quite desperately. However, that was the last thing she was about to admit to this person. "I am half Gondorian," she said flatly.  
  
"So you are. But you were nourished in the South; your blood was fired by the sun of Harad. Was it not?"  
  
"Yes." Her arms tightened about herself; she didn't quite like this sensation, of being on the defense. "So what is your point?"  
  
"Nothing, my lady. I was merely making conversation."  
  
"Well," she snapped, "you have a very peculiar way of going about it."  
  
A faint smirk crossed his face. "Have I... perhaps offended my lady in any way?"  
  
Do not forget yourself, Madiya, she admonished herself. You must not alienate this fellow; he is obviously quite powerful around here. "Oh, no, my lord," she sighed, dropping her arms helplessly at her sides, "you have not offended me. I beg of you, please forgive my poor manners. I am merely on edge. It has been such a long and trying day..." She pressed her hand to her forehead, as if faint. "Alas, that such a calamity has befallen me! Oh, my family back in Minas Tirith shall be sore aggrieved at such news!"  
  
"Yes. Isn't it appalling that you should suffer so much within our borders." He moved closer, his thick, sumptuous robes rustling. Madiya had to fight herself, not to put her hand out and feel the nap of the velvet. Goddess, she thought, irrelevantly, I'd kill to afford fabric like that-  
  
"But if you will forgive me, Lady, I must inquire into your circumstances. Where was your party attacked? I must know this, for matters of state, you understand. I apologize if it makes you relive your... great calamity."  
  
"It happened upon the Great West Road, some leagues faring east of the Deeping Coomb," said Madiya, remembering what the prince had mentioned earlier.  
  
"The Deeping Coomb, you say? Ah, yes... The dale of Helm's Deep. That is not too far from the Gap of Rohan, and the Fords of Isen..."  
  
"Indeed," said Madiya, knowing little else what to say.  
  
"And it is near where the Old South Road meets the Great West Road. I take it your journey from Tharbad to the Gap of Rohan was entirely without incident."  
  
"Entirely." Madiya reminded herself that she was supposed to have traveled from the west, although she had actually come straight from the east. Some months ago, she started out from Minas Tirith, and, in a leisurely way, had traveled along the Great West Road, making her way by performing, gambling, and picking pockets in various taverns and marketplaces. By the time she had reached the westerly reaches of Eastfold, a number of leagues away from Edoras, she veered off the Road and skirted around the city, reasoning that her plan would best work if she made her first appearance there after becoming "Lady Madiya." She came back to the Road halfway to Helm's Deep, which she reckoned would be as good a place as any to stage her "discovery." She learned quite a great deal at the local watering holes, as some of the male residents were all too ready to drown their sorrows in the company of a beautiful young woman. Despite the population along the Road, the orcish parties raided that part with increasing frequency; but the patrols of Rohirrim were also constant, and provided no end of moral support to the local peasants.  
  
"But I don't know if you realize," he said, leaning ever closer, "that you also passed not far from Isengard."  
  
"Isengard?"  
  
"Yes. The home of Saruman the White." He paused and looked intently at her, with those unsettling eyes of blue glass, as if hoping for a reaction. He must have been disappointed, as she merely stared back at him, nonplussed.  
  
"What about this Saruman the White?" she asked.  
  
"He has been the ancient and venerable ally of Rohan since time immemorial. Yet some say that he has... defected, to the camp of the Dark Lord, Sauron."  
  
"Which is not such an odd thought," she put in flippantly, "as the names sound awfully similar."  
  
Gríma blinked. "Yes. But that it a mere coincidence, I assure you. Saruman has been a faithful friend through many a year, and will no doubt aid us far into the future."  
  
Now, thought Madiya, wanting to roll her eyes, that sentiment sounded as if it had been repeated as much as an old wives' tale! Along the lines of, 'night air is harmful,' 'crossed eyes will stay that way,' and 'breaking a mirror will bring seven years of bad luck.' Now, added to the rest: 'Saruman is a faithful friend.' The farther she'd been traveling west, the more she'd been hearing about this individual, and the more she heard about him, the more she wanted to completely avoid him.  
  
"In regards to Sauron, however," Gríma continued, "I hear that various tribes of the Haradwaith have given their allegiance to him. That they are providing him with oliphants and handlers, as well as their fiercest warriors. What do you think of that, my lady?"  
  
Her face froze. Jokes about the similarities of names were one thing, but when it came to the allegiances of the South, that was quite another. Even in Bozisha-Dar, the name of Sauron was known, and loathed. Many of those who did not worship Mordor's Lord, often spat in the street at the very mention of his name. Reflexively, she touched her amulet.  
  
Gríma's eyes followed the furtive movement of her hand, and lingered there, to where her hamsa dangled beneath her collarbone, even as she replied coldly: "You seem to forget, sir. I am not of the Haradwaith. I am of the Raj. There is a difference."  
  
"But you are all Haradrim," he murmured, examining her so closely- and in such a caressing way- that the usually unflappable Madiya felt her ears turning red. "Like you, dear lady, they have your black eyes, bronzen skin, and raven hair. They are certainly your countrymen."  
  
As if bored with this thread of conversation, he suddenly changed his tack. "May I see your amulet?"  
  
Not finding any reason to object to this request, Madiya pulled her hamsa pendant from under her dress and showed it to him. As he took it gracefully, she examined his hands. Emerging from black silk and tawny lace, they seemed exquisitely carved of bone; like the hands of an ascetic, their planes were sculpted and angular, with prominent knuckles and fingers like slim reeds. Indeed, Lord Grima proudly displayed them as a priest displayed his temple's sacred relics. And though his cuticles were permanently stained night-black with ink, and a thick callous, presumably from years of holding a quill, lay like a dark pebble on the inside of his right index finger, they were otherwise immaculate; even his nails, she thought with astonishment, were manicured as carefully as the vainest lady of the Katedrala.  
  
And as he proceeded to study her amulet, tracing the brass filigree with a single finger, she pretended that the presence of his hand so near her bosom didn't bother her in the slightest. When he dropped it, after some length, he stared at her.  
  
"Why do you wear the sign of Saruman's white hand about your neck?"  
  
"It is not Saruman's hand I wear," she said sharply. "It is the Goddess- hand, of my country. And, in case you didn't notice, my lord, it is not white- and two hearts are part of the design. I thought you had known of the Goddess, that your people call Ladnoca? Her hand is a sigil of protection."  
  
"Come, come, my dear." He reached out, and when he lightly grasped her chin, she nearly gasped from the unexpected contact of those icy white fingers. "You know as well as I do that a symbol may serve more than one purpose, more than one......... master. You did pass so very close to Isengard, did you not? As for protection..." he whispered insinuatingly, "it seems that some of your countrymen, Lady Madiya, are finding the- protection of your ancient gods insufficient. It seems that some of them are now looking for protection under the sheltering aegis of the Lord Sauron of Mordor."  
  
For a moment, Madiya felt more confused than ever. Then, suddenly- Gríma's insinuation hit her with full force. By the Triune Goddess, she thought, horrified. He thinks I'm actually working for Saruman- for Sauron-  
  
"It is a pity you did not see it," said Lord Gríma, suddenly dropping his hand away from her face. "As I am sure, Lady Madiya, you would find Isengard quite to your taste."  
  
As you do? Madiya thought, outraged. Her brain began to whirl frantically. I'd wager, she told herself, Prince Éomer is right in that the white wizard Saruman is behind all the orcish attacks- no doubt even these wild rumors that he has 'defected' to Mordor are accurate. Perhaps Lord Worm here thinks I'm Saruman's messenger-girl; or that I've been sent to see how closely he follows his master's bidding. She felt an inward burst of fury. Because I'm a black-haired Southerner, a Haradan; and of course all Southrons must be allied with the forces of darkness!  
  
For a moment, she felt so enraged and insulted, she could barely think. Instead, with great effort, she controlled herself, as if she were really an aristocrat, and emotions were beneath her.  
  
She folded her arms across her chest and said, as if the whole subject bored her to no end, "I am neither responsible for nor interested in the decisions made by the nomadic tribes. Were I to speculate about the matter, I should wonder if they were coerced into that position. The desert men are proud and independent. They would have sworn allegiance to Mordor only if Mordor had given them a pressing reason for doing so." She had indeed heard of some of Mordor's 'pressing reasons.' They included, among others, the slaughter of entire villages, sale of women and children into the most degrading kind of slavery, and the wholesale destruction of dozens of desert oases- the very lifeblood of the nomads, since, to them, water was infinitely more precious than all the gold of Khand. But Madiya hated to think about these things- not only could she do nothing, it was depressing as hell itself. Besides, she hated politics.  
  
"But those are just guesses on my part," she continued. "I wouldn't really know, I'm not interested in such matters. I have already told you; my only desire is to return home, to once again see my dear relatives behind the glittering white walls of Minas Tirith."  
  
"I find it amusing," Gríma purred, "that you keep insisting on the veracity of that fiction." With the merest whisper of his black damask, he moved so close to Madiya, that his face was practically in hers; and she could see the pale glimmer of his eyes, the delicate curl of his lips, and smell the honeyed rot of his mouth. He was so close she felt dizzy; and she found herself, for some reason, admiring the bone structure of his face.  
  
"You needn't play games with me." With that, he seized her wrist, so roughly she felt the tips of his fingers press into the bone. "I know you are not who you say you are."  
  
But he doesn't know about the Rubies... yet, Madiya thought dazedly. However, she didn't trust herself to move, or speak- she only allowed herself to return his unflinching gaze.  
  
What a disgusting man, she thought distantly. He was obviously a skulking, miserable coward, who found a great measure of his power by preying upon women. Yet- at the same time- there was something irresistible about his awfulness. Even as he threatened her, she could barely take her eyes off of him. The way he had fashioned himself, with his fantastical appearance, reptilian grace and sibilant way of talking- was almost glorious in its artifice. Why, she thought, suddenly wanting to laugh wildly, this little man with his absurd name- Gríma Wormtongue, imagine- must be the most lovely grotesquerie I have ever seen! If I kissed him, I'm not sure whether I would feel nauseous, or fall on my back in delicious acquiescence-  
  
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" he hissed.  
  
And at that, an idea came to her. If you can't beat them, as her mother used to say, then, by all means, confuse them.  
  
And so, although Gríma Wormtongue was still hovering over her menacingly, Madiya merely smiled in a dreamy fashion.  
  
"You know, my lord, if I were the Sultana of Bozisha-Dar, I would keep you in my collection, like a piece of fine sculpture, or an object of art, remarkable in its utter uniqueness. During banquets, I would bring you out to show my guests, and let you talk and walk for them, and they would be amazed indeed, and shower you with rose petals and me with praise for being such a connoisseur. And I would never let you out of my palace, for fear that our ruthless southern sun would spoil your complexion, or that you would mayhap run away, and free yourself from my chains of loving bondage."  
  
Her words had the desired effect; for Lord Gríma just stared at her, astounded. His mouth twitched, and his eyes were huge. Across his face flickered a peculiar play of emotions; agitated confusion, anger at her presumption - and perhaps, indeed, some perverse interest at the idea. Yet in the end, the high and mighty advisor to Théoden, King of Rohan, really looked like nothing more than a startled rabbit.  
  
And at that, Madiya could not help herself. She threw back her head, and laughed.  
  
At the sound of her laughter, echoing weirdly throughout the Golden Hall, Gríma jerked, as if he had been stabbed. His eyes narrowing to slits, he hissed as furiously as a wounded viper, and twisted her wrist so hard she nearly lost her balance.  
  
"You detestable little trull!" he said thickly. "Do you forget who I am? One word, and I could have you banished- thrown into the dungeons- or have that pretty neck of yours strung up in the gallows. Do you hear me-"  
  
But to that- even though jolts of pain were shooting through her arm- Madiya only cocked her head and placed one finger to her lips, as if in warning.  
  
"Please, sir," she whispered. "You might wish to cease these threats, as it seems we will soon have company."  
  
At that, Lord Gríma looked at her strangely, and- much to her relief- released her wrist. "A word of warning, Lady Madiya," he hissed. "You'd best keep that amulet hidden, if you don't want to lose the ...high esteem in which Prince Éomer and Princess Éowyn currently hold you. For wouldn't it be a pity if a misunderstanding occurred over such a shoddy bit of metal?" With that, he finally turned around towards the approaching footsteps, his hands clasped with his usual elegance, as if the two of them had been discussing no more than the latest fashionable cloak.  
  
"Your Highness," he exclaimed. "What an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to the Meduseld?"  
  
"My sister, Wormtongue," Prince Éomer said loudly, as he strode into the throne room. He was obviously not a man with any time for social niceties. "Where is she?"  
  
"Oh, she is with your uncle. His Majesty the King. She is tending his ills, as a devoted niece should. Do you wish to join her?"  
  
"I shall, but anon," said Éomer briefly. He glared suspiciously at Wormtongue. "You seem to be tarrying overlong with our guest, Lord Advisor."  
  
"We began discussing her travels," Gríma wheezed sweetly, "and soon found ourselves discussing the very interesting geography of the southern lands."  
  
Before Éomer could respond to that, Madiya made sure to interrupt. "Forgive me, my lords," she murmured, "yet I am fair fatigued, and I beg leave to retire."  
  
"You, my Prince, should be the one to escort her ladyship to her apartments. Your chivalry will, no doubt, find this task highly agreeable." Lord Gríma smirked at the prince's ruddy face. "I wish I could oblige, but I find that I have, ah, pressing duties somewhere else." With that, he began to walk away.  
  
The prince shot a look of inexpressible disgust at the advisor's back, then turned to Madiya. "I should be delighted to perform such a service for you, my lady," he said humorously. "Yet I little know where your apartments lie."  
  
At that, Lord Gríma glanced back over his shoulder. His ears seemed to be as sharp as an elf. "As to that, Éomer son of Éomund," he sneered, "you might try asking the servants." And with his lavish robes sweeping the floor behind him, he vanished into the shadows.  
  
Prince Éomer gritted his teeth. "That worm," he growled. "I cannot abide him. Insolent, disgusting villain."  
  
"You are quite right there," said Madiya.  
  
"But you must admit," she continued after a pause, "he does have a fabulous tailor."  
  
  
  
*** Oh, the plot thickens! Yet I'm beginning to think all of this is beginning to seem like Middle-Earth, as authored by Oscar Wilde.  
  
The next chapter will feature a big scene with Éomer, as Madiya finds herself sucked further into the machinations of palace intrigue. Isn't this fun? Wheeee!!!  
  
*** 


	5. Chapter the Fifth

***Chapter the Fifth: In Which Our Heroine is Confronted by a Prince, and Finds Herself Falling Deeper into the Morass of Palace Intrigue. ***  
  
"Your rooms, my lady," Prince Éomer gallantly declared as Madiya walked through the door. She turned around to see a chamber, sparely furnished with a shuttered window, a carved oak chair, and a clothes chest of inlaid cedar at the foot of a bed spread with an embroidered coverlet. At least her sack of clothes was sitting on top of the chest; that was a relief. Otherwise, it was altogether underwhelming. In Rohan, these quarters was no doubt fit for a noblewoman; but in the South- even in Minas Tirith- it would be fit only for a perhaps a higher class of servant.  
  
Yet Madiya only smiled. "Thank you, your Highness. Now if I might retire- "  
  
"A moment, Lady," said the prince. In the hours since she had last seen him, he had changed out of his elaborate armor and into leggings and a tunic of olive-green wool. Yet, for all this, he still bore himself like a military man. "Hadrald, stand guard at the door," he barked to a servant who had followed him. "Make sure that any eavesdroppers are summarily dismissed. I do not wish Wormtongue or his lackeys to come calling upon me at this time."  
  
At that, Madiya smiled inwardly. If Wormtongue was determined to eavesdrop, then she doubted these straightforward blond warrior-thanes would be able to stop him!  
  
But Hadrald merely bowed and shut the door, leaving Madiya alone with Prince Éomer.  
  
"Now, Lady Madiya." He folded his arms. "We may be able to speak in private. I have been looking forward to this opportunity." Yet his grim expression did not imply that he had come looking for a tryst. Nervously, she sat in the chair, spreading her dress about her becomingly before clasping her hands in her lap like a penitent child.  
  
"Why...my prince. Whatever is the matter?"  
  
"You were talking with Wormtongue," said Éomer bluntly. "For quite a while, I hear."  
  
"Well, yes, I- was. That is, he was talking with me. He went on for quite a while. I wished to take myself away from him, your highness, but he such a way of insinuating himself-"  
  
"That he does. Of course, my lady, he would not be called 'Wormtongue' if he had not such a demeanor." At that, Madiya blinked. Really, she wanted to reply with a scornful laugh; I had been under the impression that he had been given that name because of a talent with certain kinds of oral lechery. But- wisely- she said nothing. "What," the prince demanded, "were you discussing?"  
  
"Oh..." Madiya fluttered her hands about her in a way she hoped looked innocent. "Mere matters of geography; the customs of my homeland, the route of my travels, and other such incidental things. I should hardly think-"  
  
"I would suggest, Lady Madiya, that you leave the thinking to me."  
  
Her smile froze at that, but she quickly pasted back on to her face. However, inwardly she was seething. As if, she told herself furiously, he, of all people, could tell me how to think! I daresay this rustic princeling can barely scratch his name on a scrap of parchment-  
  
But her indignant reverie was interrupted as Prince Éomer approached her, his face cold as stone. "My trusted manservant, Hadrald, overheard some of your conversation. He told me it became surprisingly heated. Now, Lady, do you mind telling me of the nature of this?" He began to pace back and forth, glaring at her all the while. "Did you come here to meet with Wormtongue?"  
  
"No!" she cried.  
  
"Then, what were you talking about with him?"  
  
Madiya opened her mouth, then shut it. Éomer was glaring at her, his jaw rigid with determination. Well, she thought, as hard as it was to believe, sometimes the unvarnished truth was the best card to play.  
  
"I shall tell you, sir," she said, looking at him straight in the eye, "even though I am ashamed, because you should know the truth." She took a deep breath. "He was interrogating me, because he thought I had been sent to him by Saruman."  
  
The prince's mouth fell open. "What?"  
  
"Yes. That's exactly how I reacted."  
  
"How could he think that?" He looked at her with growing horror, as if she suddenly turned into a slavering green orc. "Have you-"  
  
"Never!" Madiya exclaimed fiercely. It wasn't hard to pretend indignation at this point- her confrontation with Lord Gríma was still fresh in her mind. "Never have I allied myself with the likes of Saruman- or Sauron!" She stared at her feet, recollecting herself, then continued in a calmer vein. "Your Highness, you are right, in that Saruman the White is no longer a friend of Rohan. For reasons which I cannot guess, he has turned traitor. I grieve to tell you that your ancient and venerable ally has now aligned himself with the Dark Lord of Mordor."  
  
But Éomer continued to stare at her, as if she were some kind of dark sorceress. "How do you know that?" he said hoarsely.  
  
"Because the good councilor told me himself."  
  
As the confused and angry Éomer was still glaring at her in a darkling suspicious fashion, she elaborated.  
  
"Your Highness," she began, "the conversation began very innocently. Lord Wormtongue started inquiring into my journey from Tharbad. But I became confused when he asked me if I knew anything about Isengard, which he told me I had passed by while traveling on the Old South Road. When I said I didn't, he went on to tell me, that although Saruman of Isengard had been Rohan's great friend for the longest time, there were rumors that he had become an ally of Sauron. And then he told me that many of my people were fighting for Sauron, and what did I think of that?" She was glad then that her hamsa, as Lord Gríma had suggested in that poisonous way of his, had remained hidden under her dress. She didn't like to think how Éomer would react to an amulet that resembled the sign of Saruman, even if it was the most ridiculous coincidence.  
  
"I told him it saddened me, but I knew little of it, since war was a man's business. But- that was when he told me that he very much thought it was my business!'" She clasped her hands together and shuddered. "Sir, it was then that I finally figured out- much to my horror- that he thought me a messenger or a spy from Saruman. I told him he had the wrong idea of me; but he took my persistent refusal poorly. I was, needless to say, very relieved when you arrived."  
  
"Very well," said Éomer, his voice flat and toneless. "Yet, Lady, you still have not answered my question." His eyebrows drawn together, he peered at her, with abrupt contempt, as if she were a mere insect, some dark centipede or beetle, which had just scuttled from under a rock and in front of his boot. "Why would Wormtongue think that you work for Saruman?"  
  
At that, something in Madiya- something worn thin by all those years of derisive looks, and snide comments about her southern blood- snapped. All thoughts- at least for a moment- of carefully finagling the Rubies from these Rohirrim aristocrats vanished completely from her mind.  
  
She jumped up, her eyes flashing.  
  
"Why?" Her voice rose several octaves. "Why do you think? Because I'm from Harad! It's no matter I'm half Gondorian. I've black hair and dark skin, I'm not fair-haired and blue-eyed like one of you northmen. And it's certainly of no account that Sauron has done his share of butchering of the desert folk- we're just a bunch of swarthy barbarians anyway! I find that all I can do," she cried, pointing at the prince, "is pray for my poor countrymen, who have either been terrorized, blandished or paid to swell that murdering demon's rank and file!"  
  
Prince Éomer flushed darkly. His jaw tightened; his fists clenched; he seemed on the verge of shouting back at her; but with obvious effort, he reined in his temper. Curtly, he turned away and walked over to the window. Gripping the sill, he stared fixedly out the window. Madiya gazed upon his broad shoulders, her anger slowly turning into bemusement. Her attack, sharp, feminine, and righteous, was obviously far beyond the ken of this stolid Marshal of the Riddermark; sword and steed he knew like the back of his hand, but to her words- he scarcely seemed to know how to respond.  
  
Some minutes passed; the room was so quiet, she heard a fly buzzing on the sill.  
  
"I'm sorry to lose my temper, your highness," she said at last, "but it is not a pleasant thing, to be accused of working for Saruman."  
  
"I...understand that." Finally, he turned around. "I should not have...jumped to conclusions. I was," he added heavily, "at fault."  
  
Well, there was a reluctant apology if she had ever heard one. "Why, are you still angry at me, your Highness?"  
  
The prince gritted his teeth. "I- No, my lady. The truth be told- I am angry at myself!"  
  
"Why?" Madiya asked again, this time with gentleness. "Why are you angry at yourself?"  
  
"Because," he said, his voice husky and embarrassed, "I am too quick to see the enemies about us, lurking in dale and grove, marking our every move and paying heed to every whisper. It makes for a poor upbringing, lady, and my hospitality is the weaker for it." He remained like a ramrod, but he somehow reminded her then, with his rangy muscularity and huge, wide-spaced brown eyes, of nothing more than a king's proud hunting hound, reproved by the groomsman for having gone astray on the wrong scent. "It should not have come as such a surprise to me that you loathed Sauron as well."  
  
At that, she sighed- strongly tempted to throw her hands in the air, in utter exasperation. By all the gods! How could she remain angry at such a man? One who showed every single emotion on his face, like the most ingenuous child. "Well, of course I hate Sauron. Anybody in his right mind would hate Sauron! For pity's sake, what sort of lunatic would want the world to end up looking like Mordor?"  
  
"No one. No one, of course. Except- men like Wormtongue." And a sick, stricken look came over Éomer then.  
  
"Yes." Madiya kept her voice perfectly neutral. "He hates you all, you know." Although for an odd moment, she wondered what events had shaped him, how the fair-haired people of Rohan must have treated this dark, serpentine little scribe, to make him loathe them all so much. "And," she added, with casual brutality, "he won't rest until you're all dead." Except Éowyn, she told herself, thinking of how Lord Gríma had gazed after the princess so longingly, after she had departed their company. No, I think he wants her very much alive. But she thought better of mentioning that.  
  
Prince Éomer closed his eyes, as if praying. Then he opened them. "By the Valar," he choked. "If I could only cleanse the earth of that- abomination-"  
  
She near faltered at that. But a cold part of her whispered- of course he wants him dead. If you were the Prince, wouldn't you? But Gríma, she thought, was only reacting as she might have, under the situation. Were there something so terribly wrong in wanting revenge against the people who humiliated you? Should all people like that- people like her and Gríma, the thieves and schemers of the world- be eliminated, because the brave and unblemished and sickeningly innocent found them threatening?  
  
Of course not, she answered herself. And there was nothing wrong with revenge either. The only thing really wrong in this world was getting caught, and unfortunately Gríma- with his blatantly sinister looks and demeanor- was in some ways just begging to have his head sliced off and stuck up on a pike.  
  
"Well," she replied harshly. "There is one sure way. Kill him." As the words left her mouth, Madiya practically cringed. Goddess, what was happening to her? She sounded just like Lady Balroubar- that gold- bedecked, ice-blooded first wife of her old lover, Lord Ahmaadi. If she was turning into that bitch, she should just slice her wrists with her dagger right now. But, she told herself defensively, she was just becoming impatient with all this honorable princely dithering. If the Rohirrim were as practical as everyone said they were, wouldn't that make the disposal of a certain conniving advisor a relatively direct matter?  
  
But Éomer looked at her then, sharply. "Kill him?"  
  
"Yes." As she put her hands on her hips, she tried not to think of Lord Gríma, intimately handling her Goddess-amulet with his tapered marble fingers. "Not that I wish to advocate any unnecessary violence, your Highness. But if you wish to 'cleanse the earth,' as you say, that would no doubt be the most straightforward tactic."  
  
"Straightforward indeed," said the prince, and he gave her a stare so hard she began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. "If you do not mind my saying so, Lady Madiya, that is not the sort of suggestion I would have expected to come out of the mouth of the near-fainting damsel I had met earlier today."  
  
Madiya blinked. Oh, Goddess, she was letting her mask slip; but it was inevitable, wasn't it? She could only playact the fluttering lady for so long. She would just have to brazen it through. "Your Highness, if you mean to say that I am not as innocent as I seem, that is the truth. I do not expect you to be well acquainted with the customs of Minas Tirith, but many ladies in the shadow of the White Tower behave as myself."  
  
"What?" Prince Éomer gave a humorless laugh. "Pretending to be all sweetness and charm, when they are really plotting assassinations?"  
  
She put her hands on her hips. "Which might not be such a bad thing! Just think, your Highness; I would not give Lord Gríma a red cockerel's chance against a stalwart bastion of our Gondorian dames! We could out- think him and out-plan him before he ever drew breath!"  
  
For a moment, Éomer just stared at her; then he threw back his head and gave a hearty laugh that practically rang off the walls of her chamber. "Well, by the Valar, it is a pity then I cannot import a 'stalwart bastion' of ladies from Minas Tirith! I would give a dragon's hoard to see such women bring down the Worm!" Despite herself, Madiya too began to laugh very loudly, if not quite for the same reason the prince was; for she was thinking, perhaps only a woman could bring down Lord Wormtongue, and take him down very low indeed. She smirked to herself. Very, very low...  
  
The prince's laughter eventually died down, and Madiya's chuckles subsided as well. "Of course," she added, with a raised eyebrow, "Minas Tirith is not only full of ladies; it is full of assassins too."  
  
Éomer sighed. "Lady Madiya, as much as I appreciate your- ah, pragmatic Gondorian advice- I am sorry to tell you that assassination was once attempted on Wormtongue. "  
  
"And it failed?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What- happened, if I may ask?"  
  
The prince's eyes clouded over, opaque with a pain that obviously had not receded too far into the past. He looked off into space, and drew a deep breath, as if preparing himself.  
  
"You may ask, Lady Madiya. And I shall tell you, although it is a brief and bitter tale that throws nothing but shame upon the once-proud name of Rohan. Near the ripening of the last harvest moon, it happened... that a friend of mine, Heardréd son of Heard, became aware of the great evil that was being wrought upon the Riddermark. He saw that a once healthy and happy king had fallen into early dotage; that the farmers and herders of our borders now lived in fear of monstrous march-rievers; and indeed, the whole kingdom, from Helm's Deep to the River Limlight, trembled in expectation of the approach of Mordor. e saHe saw how all of this had come to pass since Gríma son of Galmod, that all called Wormtongue, had joined the King's council and risen to the rank of chief advisor. He also saw how with each of Wormtongue's honeyed words, the King grew ever more frail and ever more in thrall.  
  
"Now Heardréd- my friend- was a true son of the Mark. He was fearless and true, a warrior born, and he swore unto all the gods- even at the cost of his own life- that he would bring about the death of Wormtongue, for he realized that this foul-minded councilor was not only the curse of hearth and hall, but all that Rohan held dear. So it happened, on the very night of the harvest moon, upon the porch of the Meduseld itself, that the son of Heard drew sword upon the son of Galmod. Indeed-" Éomer said through his teeth- "he came so close. So close... a mere inch away from ending that sniveling coward's life! But a terrifying omen- a great black raven winging and screeching overhead- startled him, and by ill fortune he swerved his blade asides. And, my lady- that one second spelled his doom. The king's guards, alerted by screams from the Worm, slaughtered brave Heardréd Heard's son on the spot, like the meanest dog.  
  
Then," Éomer went on evenly, "upon Wormtongue's command, Heardréd's corpse was thrown into the midden, with the pigs. For, as Wormtongue said- the pigs would welcome the chance to dig their snouts into some meat." And his eyes lowered then, as he tried again to gain control of himself.  
  
When at last he could trust himself to look up again, he continued.  
  
"Ever since then, my lady, a simple murder has been out of the question. Many people of Rohan are deathly afraid of Wormtongue- the flight of that ill-timed raven they take as an omen from the dark gods themselves. They will not cross him."  
  
"Will you?"  
  
"Lady," he said with a fierce snarl, "were it not for my sister- I would have gladly sacrificed myself years ago to slice that bastard's gullet!"  
  
Madiya could hardly bring herself to meet the prince's intense gaze. "So," she whispered, "I guess assassination seems to be out of the question."  
  
"Yes," the prince said flatly. He rubbed his blond whiskered chin, deep in thought. "Lady Madiya, I wish with all my soul that I could convince more people, that the Wormtongue is not protected by divine powers; that he is a mere mortal, a coward even, who might be easily exiled from Rohan for eternity!"  
  
"Well," she said, beginning to feel somewhat anxious at this turn of conversation. "That is certainly an honorable endeavor, my lord Prince, but I don't know how I can help. I am merely passing through-"  
  
"But you also hate Sauron!" He gazed at her with utter sincerity, his earth-brown eyes wide with an appeal to what was presumably her love of virtue. "Surely, since you know of Wormtongue's true allegiance, you could help us crush one of his tools..." As his voice trailed away, she sighed.  
  
"Your Highness," she said, "if I was to give you any advice, it would be this. I know you have a short temper, and you act impulsively. Believe me, Lord Gríma knows this too, and- as sure as night follows day- he is using this against you. Remember: you cannot destroy a rat by chopping at it with a sword. After all, a rat is small and quick, and has many places to hide. The way you catch a rat is by setting traps; you bait it with cheese, as to lure it of its hiding-place. Then, when it goes for the cheese, the trap is sprung- and the rat's neck is broken." She finally turned around, spreading her hands. "That is how."  
  
The prince was looking pensive when Madiya suddenly realized what she was doing. By the Goddess, she thought, her stomach twisting. I am giving advice that will get this man killed! This comrade in intrigue; this brother in the arts of deception. Scarcely believing herself, she walked over to the window, where the prince had been. She thought of opening the shutters, but erred on the side of caution, and satisfied herself by looking at the blue-lavender sky of dusk through the wooden slats. With a dark, uncomfortable shiver of pleasure, she thought- Gríma himself might be watching this window. Even if he isn't, he surely knows by now that I am discussing something of importance with the prince. News must travel fast in a small place like Edoras.  
  
As a faint breeze rustled her hair, she thought that she could almost hear the wings of the black raven that just narrowly saved his life from a cold avenging blade. If were not for that, then Gríma son of Galmod would have become the meat that the pigs had devoured; not Heardréd son of Heard. How strange life was sometimes.  
  
But at that very second she could have sworn, that she really did feel his gaze, his sharp pale eyes piercing the darkness like knives-  
  
Madiya just gave herself a shake; she told herself she was only imagining things, and turned her mind back to the matter at hand. The Goddess only knew, she told herself abruptly, where the crown prince Théodred was; probably running around, chasing orcs and whatnot. In any case, while making queries about the political state of Rohan, she had heard little of him, and more of his younger cousin, Éomer, who had quite a reputation as a warrior and a hothead. Now, she told herself, if Gríma had his way, Éomer would be dead. No doubt, up in that convoluted brain of his, he already had an unpleasant fate planned especially for him. She hated to think of this sturdy, foolish, proud young man, with his red cheeks, beautiful eyes and painfully earnest manner, lying under the ground, making a cold feast for worms.  
  
It would be such a waste.  
  
"You see," she went on, finally turning around, "your Highness, he is so difficult to outwit because he is a snake who discovers someone's weaknesses and uses it against them."  
  
"This is true," says Éomer. "I wonder what he discovered about you?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Madiya asked nervously.  
  
"My lady, when I came into the Great Hall, the two of you were whispering, like conspirators. You hardly seemed like a maiden in need of rescuing. Or is that," he asked sternly, "yet another fashionable pose from Minas Tirith?"  
  
"What!" she burst out. "You think I was cooperating with him?" As her mother used to say, there was no defense like a good offense. Her eyes blazing, she dramatically pulled up her sleeve, revealing the red marks of the advisor's fingers- now turning into bruises- on the pale, thin-skinned underside of her wrist. "He grabbed me, your Highness, and threatened me!"  
  
The prince's eyes widened; and just as she knew he would, he gritted his teeth in fury. "That vile, cringing knave. If I could just impale him upon my sword-!" Then- with obvious restraint- he stubbornly shook his head. "But, my lady, if you were truly a blameless, innocent bystander-"  
  
"I would have cried out for help?" Madiya interrupted. "By the Goddess, your Highness, it does not take much wisdom to see who is in control here in Edoras. And it is not you!"  
  
Éomer blanched. "Lady Madiya," he said icily. "For a guest, you are extraordinarily free with your insults-"  
  
"Well, of course it is insulting, to realize that you are taking second place to that- slithering white-faced schemer! But it is the truth, isn't it?"  
  
"It is the truth," he said angrily, "but you are very discourteous to fling it in my teeth. If you were a man, I would have no doubt challenged you to single combat for such insolence!"  
  
"Insolence!" Madiya smiled. "Is that what you call it! I had been led to believe you and your gracious sister appreciated plain speaking."  
  
"Well, yes, but- plain-speaking is one thing, yet insolence is clearly another!"  
  
"Not so clear as you think, your Highness. One man's plain speaking might be another man's insolence. Have you never encountered a man who took your honesty for effrontery? Or another for mere brazen gall? You cannot tell me you have never had such problems, a man so... marvelously candid as yourself." And she put a hand on her hip, as her full dark lips grew wider with a flirtatious smile.  
  
Éomer flushed, clearly at a loss. "I don't know how you do it, Lady," he muttered. "But you have a way of fair turning one's head around with your words."  
  
She gazed up at him, under lowered eyelashes. "To hear you admit that, my lord Prince," she murmured, "is a fine compliment indeed."  
  
Under his whiskers, his cheeks grew ever more crimson. Madiya tried to keep a grin from spreading too widely on her face. A mighty warrior he might be, but Prince Éomer obviously had little experience with women. "And although I loathe Wormtongue as much as you, your Highness," she continued, pressing her advantage as she leaned closer, " it hardly would have been very wise of me to make a scene with the man who is essentially the acting regent hereabouts." She shot him a sharp glance. "The king is very sick, isn't he?"  
  
"Extremely." The prince's voice was grim.  
  
"And the worthy advisor is naturally tending His Majesty's ills?"  
  
"Naturally. As he often tells us," Éomer went on with sarcasm, "there is none so knowledgeable in physic or leechcraft as he, in all the kingdom."  
  
"He tends the king quite... diligently, I trust?"  
  
"Yes. Lord Wormtongue is very conscientious in his duties." His face set into an expression of sorrow and rage. "But although he feeds the king as much medicine as one would find on an apothecary's table, the king never seems to improve. In fact, he worsens- as he grows ever more dependant on the Worm's ministering hands. I find that indeed remarkable!"  
  
"It is." Poison, she thought, and raised an eyebrow. Éomer gazed back at her with understanding, as if to say- Indeed, but how can one defeat such a monster?  
  
Like flies, a thousand suggestions swarmed through Madiya's head: she wanted to tell him to bring in a proper physician from Gondor to look at the ailing king; or better yet, hire a master from Gondor's guild of assassins to shoot Wormtongue full of crossbow-darts. Surely a paid assassin would lack the superstitions of the locals, especially if paid enough. But Éomer was not paying her to do his thinking for him. He was a grown man; he could look after himself. As she had had to look after herself, for the past ten years, she thought with sudden bitterness.  
  
"Well, then!" She took a deep breath. "I shall be gone soon; and you, your sister and your cousin the crown prince must deal with- this advisor- yourself."  
  
"Yes, I must. Somehow..." For all Éomer's upright pride and anger, for a moment he looked so lost- so utterly unsure what to do next- that she reached out and placed a soft hand upon his sleeve.  
  
"Remember, my Prince. Do not despair," she whispered. "Just think. Rat- traps."  
  
He gazed at her, his confusion, discomfort and grief writ nakedly across his face, for all the world to see. Embarrassed, Madiya bit her lip. By the gods, she thought, if there was any man less prepared to deal with subtlety, it was this one- there could not one devious bone in his body. Indeed, she felt almost envious for a moment. The world had to be so simple, so clear to him. Whereas, to her-  
  
"You must be exhausted, Lady Madiya. I should leave you now." He bowed, and after a slight hesitation, took her hand and kissed it. His lips lightly brushed the back of her hand, and his grasp was as rough and warm as Gríma's was smooth and cold.  
  
"Until the banquet," he said, and Madiya smiled radiantly at him, as the door closed.  
  
He really was perfectly lovely, she thought dismally. Courtly and honest and brave, for all his temper and naïveté. Someday- he should make some fortunate princess a fine husband.  
  
Yet as she continued to stare off into space, she found herself for some reason only looking forward to her next meeting with that other man- the black-haired, bone-pale snake with the ebon robes and beautiful hands that she had told Prince Éomer, very casually, to murder.  
  
**** Next chapter: the banquet! 


	6. Chapter the Sixth

*** Chapter the Sixth- In Which Our Heroine Attends a Banquet of some Distinction. ***  
  
"Good evening, Lady Madiya. I pray that you have rested well."  
  
She blinked. Princess Éowyn stood before her, in a gown of russet, girt with silver, her countenance solemn and her capable hands clasped before her. But what truly made Madiya stop in her tracks were the jewels about her neck: a string of magnificent polished rubies, caught together in a breathtakingly intricate web of glimmering white mithril. It had the oddest effect about the princess's snowy neck ; as if a great ax of the finest steel had sliced her, neatly, and she was only continuing to talk and walk from the inherent magic of the necklace. In a way, she thought dizzily, this would not be unexpected, as the rubies themselves seemed almost preternatural; they near glowed, like the setting sun shining through the petals of anemones, or drops of blood lit by fire.  
  
The princess leaned forward. "My lady? Is anything the matter?"  
  
"No," Madiya said quickly. "No, I am.fine, merely a bit groggy, perhaps, from my rest." Her mouth felt suddenly dry. The Rubies were more beautiful than she could have ever imagined. "But I feel much better now; indeed I feel. vastly hungry."  
  
At that, Éowyn laughed- a silvery peal of laughter that was quite unexpected, especially from such a serious young woman. "Then it is quite good we are going to dine, is it not? I hope Elfwyn was much help to you."  
  
It took a moment for Madiya to place that this Elfwyn was the twelve-year- old sent to assist her in dressing. "Yes, your Highness. I don't know what I would have done without her." The little girl had indeed been a great help lacing her up, although she kept gawking at the Madiya's Gondorian frock as if it were some wizard's robe of indescribable age and power. Madiya had noticed that- with a few exceptions- most women of Rohan dressed in belted feed-sacks. Obviously the idea of side-lacings was a concept utterly foreign to the country maid's notion of style.  
  
But Princess Éowyn, of course, possessed more sophistication than that. "I take it that is the latest fashion from Minas Tirith?"  
  
Madiya, who had spent a week's worth of loot on the fabric and the tailoring, found it difficult not to preen. "It is indeed, my lady." The gown was hyacinth blue, with full gored skirts, a row of delicate gilt buttons down the front, and long tippets dangling daintily from her elbow; but by far the most eye-catching detail was how the bodice had been laced very tightly up the sides, accentuating the bosom most marvelously. "In the east it is called it the bold-coat, and it is the height of elegance among the greatest ladies of Minas Tirith."  
  
"Minas Tirith," Éowyn echoed, looking at the gown with a certain shy, reluctant longing. At last she spoke again. "You must think us all quite unfashionable, out here in Edoras."  
  
Madiya was about to vociferously deny this statement, then time remembered the princess's marked preference for frankness. "For the most part, your Highness, I do," she replied. "With the exception of yourself, of course. You dress beautifully."  
  
"How- kind of you to make allowances for me, Lady Madiya."  
  
"My lady, I am not lying. You live so far from the city, it's to be expected that your frocks would be a bit behind the times. But the cut and color, is, nevertheless, clearly top quality. The ladies of Edoras must be deft with a needle indeed."  
  
"You- think so?" Éowyn said slowly.  
  
"I don't just think so- I know so. And just think how pleased your tiring women would be if you provided them with the latest pattern!"  
  
At that, her skeptical look finally melted. "Really?" She glanced down at her dress, encrusted with the old-fashioned embroidery of horses.  
  
"Your Highness, just imagine! In a bold-coat you'll be as merry as the month of May. You'd be breaking so many hearts, you'd have to write them all down to remember them." Madiya grinned. "It is even said that the mere sight of a damsel in one would cause the most raging berserker to desert a battle in favor of those gentler pleasures of the night!"  
  
At that, the brightness in Éowyn's face suddenly dimmed. "If that is so then I should be much better off without it. I am afraid," she muttered, "some men need no help in thinking of such matters."  
  
And although she said no more, her shadowed eyes were testament enough to her fear.  
  
And suddenly, Madiya thought of an incident, many years ago, when she had first arrived in Gondor. It happened in the markets of Pelargir; she was shopping for cuts of meat, at the local butcher's, when she felt the eyes of someone upon her. She looked behind her to see that it was a man, watching her steadily. At first she wondered if she knew him, for he reminded her vaguely of one of her friends; he wore dark tattered shapeless robes, but he was not unattractive. She remembered how his cheeks were full and rosy as a child's, and his eyes were large and round and black as river stones. He really could have been any of the shadow-loving scuttlebugs of her acquaintance- Madiya knew very many odd people, from all walks of life- but she came to the conclusion quickly that she did not know him, and that there was, moreover, something about his manner that she did not like. Hoping he would go away if she refused to talk to him, she turned her attention back to the strung-up carcasses. Yet, somehow, the unknown man must have taken her quizzical glances as encouragement. For, as she walked back to her lodgings, he followed her. And there was something about the covert way this complete stranger was staring at her- that began to terrify her. There was something in those black river-stone eyes of his, a relentless devouring hunger- that made her want to run, headlong, in the opposite direction.  
  
It had taken some effort, some of that circling, doubling back and elusive footwork learned in the alleys of Bozisha-Dar, before she had finally lost the man. She had prayed to the Goddess that he would not find her lodgings; and, for once, her prayers were answered. Yet she had been so disturbed by the episode, that she had left the city sooner than expected. In any case, one could never depend on the good will of the gods for too long.  
  
She hadn't thought of that man in years, but now, as she remembered him, she could not blame Éowyn a whit for loathing and fearing this Gríma. There were those who had such monstrous **wanting** in them, it was like a great whirlpool, or a bottomless abyss; you had to run, for your own self- preservation, or else you would be pulled in-  
  
Yet she bit her lip, saying nothing. Part of her wanted to tell this story to the princess. A part of her wanted to assure her that she understood how she felt, that she wasn't alone. But another- stronger- part of her just eyed the Rubies, with sharp hunger, and the covetous eyes of a serpent, and whispered:  
  
**I want.**  
  
"Lady Madiya," said Princess Éowyn at some length, "we should join the gentlemen. We shouldn't want them to think that we are becoming too involved in our feminine chatter."  
  
"Which I doubt as they are probably too involved in their masculine chatter," Madiya commented dryly. Although she was glad to see that her quip elicited at least a slight smile from the young princess of Rohan, they proceeded wordlessly on to the main hall.  
  
***  
"Where is King Théoden?" asked Madiya, after they had been seated at the high table, and after the laverer had come around with his bowl of rosewater and towel as they could wash and dry their hands.  
  
Éowyn stared at her goblet of mead. Around her, pages brought, to various tables, the dishes of the first course; soups, fruits, and platters of steaming viands, while warrior lords and their ladies drank, chattered and threw bones to the dogs that cavorted at the foot of the benches.  
  
"He is too sick to attend."  
  
"Is he ever well enough to attend?" Madiya asked sharply.  
  
"Not since Wormtongue has become his chief advisor and councilor."  
  
She permitted herself to raise an eyebrow at that. It sounded her that the Worm clearly had his goal as the kingdom, with a noble bride by his side. If I were you, she wanted to tell Éowyn, I would invite his Lordship for an intimate evening's walk, perhaps to some ill-populated corner of the palace. At a pre-agreed juncture, have a loyal bondsman jump out and strangle him with a garrote. I do not think he will put up too much of a fight. And, if the strangling is done properly, he will not make much noise either.  
  
She took a deep drink of mead. But then Éowyn was not paying her to do her thinking for her either. What on earth was the problem of the royalty of Rohan? Did they really think that transparent honesty was a virtue in those who had the lives of thousands in their care? She was torn between admiring these people, and despising them. But it really didn't matter, in the end.  
  
Madiya thought: After the feast, when everyone has gone to bed, I shall invite myself to a private talk in the princess's own chamber. She was sure she could do it easily- she could dance right in, right as Éowyn was about to prepare for bed. For all her rank, the princess seemed to have precious few ladies-in-waiting or tiring women, so that didn't seem an obstacle. In any case, she could well pretend anguish, insomnia, a pressing reason to talk privately. And then- she could send for wine, or some kind of hot posset. Then- when the other girl wasn't looking- she would slip a tincture of lapdanum into her drink. A ruse as ancient as sunken Númenor, but it should work with one as hopelessly undissimulating as Éowyn. And then- the search. The necklace was probably kept in some obvious jewel box with a lock easily picked. Done quickly, of course. With the princess evidently deep in peaceful slumber, and the necklace safely in her keeping, she would have the entire night to make her escape.  
  
The only hitch was that the gates of the town would be locked tighter than the doors of a jealous sultan's harem. Blessed Goddess, prayed Madiya, You have guided me this far; don't desert me now! She did have a coil of rope with her. As bribing the gatekeeper would seem an unlikely option, she reckoned she could scale the palisades. Such effort would not be completely unexpected, in a venture of this sort. She would miss having a horse to steal, but if she got an early enough start- and slept during the day, traveled by night and kept off the main road- she stood a good chance of avoiding any mounted pursuers. Perhaps she could even steal a horse later, she thought with an inward shrug, once they had lost the scent. In any case, as she would be going mostly on foot, it would be imperative to travel light, so she would have to leave some of her clothes behind. Although Madiya gazed down at her hyacinth bold-coat with some regret, she told herself that she could soon buy a hundred, from the proceeds of the sale of the Rubies. It was, after all, a matter of prioritizing.  
  
Now, by the gods, one priority that she had to adhere to- religiously- was the avoidance of Gríma Wormtongue. If there was anyone in this country of horse-herders who could muck up her plans, it was he.  
  
"Lady Madiya," interrupted Princess Éowyn, "may I inquire into the nature of your reverie? You seem quite lost in thought."  
  
"I was thinking about Lord Gríma, my lady," she responded.  
  
"Were you!"  
  
"Yes." And she grimaced expressively. "I was just thinking how well indeed he deserves that.... remarkable epithet of 'Wormtongue'!"  
  
Éowyn smiled at that, but her eyes flickered about the pillared hall. "Is he that sort of person," Madiya inquired quietly, "to make an appearance just as one begins to discuss him?"  
  
"You are quite correct, Lady Madiya. He seems to have a sixth sense about such matters."  
  
"How delightful. Well, then, let us discuss matters apart from himself- matters that he obviously would have no interest in." And Madiya began to chatter gaily of the most recent fashions, and the love lives of the great lords and ladies of Minas Tirith. She even told a most amusing story of an arrogant squire who behaved most rudely to a renowned magician whom he had brought to court. Yet the magician had had his revenge, and most deliciously too; at the palace, he had retaliated, after providing a illusory performance of dancing knights and ladies, by revealing to all the assembled courtiers the squire's new lady-love- a blushing, greasy-cheeked kitchen maid, clutching a dripping gravy ladle. At that last story, Éowyn had laughed quite a bit. "Lady Madiya," she exclaimed, "you are a marvelous storyteller indeed! But although I do enjoy hearing the tales of Gondor, you must tell me some stories of your native land. I should dearly love to hear of Far Harad."  
  
"Very well," laughed Madiya. "How can I resist, with such an enthusiastic audience!"  
  
She then began to tell this wide-eyed northern princess various fairy tales she remembered her mother telling her: such as the sailor who discovered a valley of diamonds after being carried away by the fabled man-eating rukh- bird; the porter who discovered an enchanted sultan in a palace of glass, while riding upon a flying horse of the most cunning machinery; and the astonishing tale of the most learned man of the age, who was turned into an ape by a cruel demon for his love of the Princess of the Ebony Isle. At the conclusion of each tale, Éowyn clapped, as delighted as a little girl; and after every so often, she inquired about the customs of the South, such as the food, fashion, and worship, which Madiya would answer to the best of her abilities. "But, my Lady," she said at last, "I have not even told you my favorite story of all- the tale of Mahdi, the poor but honest charcoal-gatherer who discovered the treasure of the Robber-King, and Morgiana, the clever slave-girl who loved him and saved his life."  
  
"Oh, do tell it, Lady Madiya- it sounds wonderful!"  
  
Thus encouraged, Madiya began to tell her favorite story with gusto. It was a well-known tale in Bozisha-Dar; she often demanded it of her mother, as they huddled about the dim-glowing brazier for warmth. She remembered how her mother would wrap her arms about her, and with her soft voice, weave a spell of enchantment with the familiar words- sometimes pausing the narration for dramatic effect, sometimes jumping up and acting out the part of the wicked, strutting Robber-King, or the clever, beautiful Morgiana, when she danced the Dance of the Sword towards the end of the tale. She never dreamed how much fun it would be, to tell the story for someone who'd never heard it before. Éowyn literally hung on to her every word. She gasped when she heard of how Mahdi unexpectedly discovered the magical cave that hid the Robber-King's treasure, the loot of a hundred kingdoms. She shivered when Mahdi narrowly escaped with his life, and then frowned when he came home to reveal his good luck to his greedy brother, Mahsin, who immediately proposed that they go right back to sack the cave for as much gold as ten donkeys could carry.  
  
"Yet when Mahdi said, 'Mahsin, it is not wise to tempt the gods that way! Those robbers are wicked men, and would surely hunt us down and kill us if they knew that we had been pilfering their treasure,' Mahsin only laughed. 'Brother,' he said with scorn, 'you have been and always will be an utter fool! Surely wisdom is not worth more than rubies!'"  
  
Despite herself, she paused to look at the princess's neck, and the glittering wealth of rubies that encircled it.  
  
"Mahsin is the one who is a fool," said Éowyn angrily. She seemed not to notice the object of Madiya's attention, as she was gazing off into space, wrapped up in the magical world of the story. "He should listen to his brother. Those robbers are vicious, ruthless men!"  
  
"Never fear, your Highness. Mahsin will get his comeuppance." She paused again, and drank deeply from her cup of mead. "It is as the poets say. The greedy," she said hypocritically, "will always fare thusly from the hands of the gods."  
  
And she continued with the tale. Mahsin perished, of course, chopped into little pieces by the angry robbers; and it was at that point, after his funeral, that she introduced Morgiana. More than any princess or bejeweled goddess-empress in a far-off hall, Morgiana the slave-girl had been the heroine of Madiya's youth. She adored the story of the smart, feisty girl who saved the life of the man she loved with her nerve and cunning. She told Éowyn how the robbers, upon discovering Mahdi's home, marked the door with red chalk; and how Morgiana, upon finding it, went to every door on the street and marked it with chalk as well. Then the Robber-King pretended to be an oil merchant, and with his forty men hidden in oil jars, came to Mahdi's house and requested to spend the night. Of course, on a pre-arranged signal, they were going to jump out and slaughter the entire household, but Morgiana found them just in time and poured boiling oil over them, cooking the evil men to death in the jars. And finally, the Robber- King, who had sworn to all the gods of the abyss that he would get his revenge, came disguised as a carpet-merchant to the wedding-feast of Mahdi and Morgiana, determined to wreak his wickedness upon the happy throng. Yet the clever girl immediately saw through his disguise; and proclaimed to the bridegroom that she wished to perform the Dance of the Sword. With a scimitar in hand, she danced sinuously, artfully; with her beauty and grace, she was the wonder of all eyes; yet as the drums, dharabukas, dhols and tabors came to a pounding climax, she swung the saber and lopped off the Robber-King's head.  
  
Éowyn clasped her hands over her mouth, her eyes shining. "Did she do that? By the Valar, what an admirable girl!"  
  
"Isn't she?" Madiya beamed. She quickly narrated how Morgiana explained, to her shocked husband, that the mysterious guest she had killed was really the Robber-King, as the pages were bearing the dishes of the third course their way. She had been so busy talking, she had forgotten just how hungry she was. "And so Mahdi and his beloved Morgiana lived their rest of their days in the pleasance of life and all its many sorrows and joys, until they were overtaken by death, the breaker of bonds, the destroyer of delights, and the sunderer of societies. My lady, I have reached the end of my story- "  
  
"Which is such a shame," a voice from behind them interrupted. "I was so enjoying hearing of the adventures of your- dancing girl."  
  
She shouldn't have been surprised, but she still winced. Éowyn's smile disappeared as if it had been wiped away. The princess then turned around in her chair, perfectly composed.  
  
"My lord advisor. If you had any interest in listening to Lady Madiya's tale, you should have made yourself known earlier. One might think that you enjoy lurking in the shadows."  
  
"Oh, but I do," Lord Gríma purred. "One learns so much that way." With only a faint rustle of his raven-black robes, he moved around the table, and sat across from them. Only a mere glance from his pale eyes sent the pages into a flurry- the laverer almost tripped over himself, in his hurry to bring the rosewater and towel to the councilor. With an almost feline fastidiousness, Gríma dipped his fingers into the fragrant water and wiped them on the thick cloth. "How charming you two ladies look. As different as night and day, but your golden head and your dark are inclined with such sweet intimacy. I am delighted to see that you two have become such fast friends."  
  
"How kind of you to feel delighted for me, Lord Wormtongue," the princess said coldly.  
  
"I am only delighted to see your pleasure, my princess. You were quite... radiant with it." Briefly, there was a awkward silence; then the advisor continued, as smoothly as ever. "Lady Madiya, your gown is also lovely. A new style from Gondor, I presume?"  
  
"You presume correctly."  
  
"I would expect no less from such a... high-ranking lady. The Meduseld is honored to host such loveliness." He gave them an oily smile as a nervous little page brought him a gold chalice brimming with mead and a plate laden with a steaming haunch of venison. At another sharp glance from Wormtongue, the page- with shaking hands- sipped the mead. When he did not fall down frothing at the mouth, the advisor then took the drink, presumably satisfied that it was not poisoned.  
  
Éowyn's lip curled, but Madiya merely smiled back at him, with equal falseness.  
  
"You are too kind, my lord. I would return the flattery, were it not for the fact I saw you wearing the exact same outfit earlier."  
  
Éowyn covered her mouth, to hide a grin. Gríma scowled.  
  
"You are, as ever, extremely clever, Lady Madiya. As clever as that Morgiana in your story. Is that a marked trait in the ladies of the South?"  
  
"There are, as anywhere, Lord Gríma, clever people as well as foolish ones."  
  
"Foolish like that Mahsin, the brother of your hero? Now he was a greedy one. He seemed so much more... infatuated with rubies than good, plain sense." Gríma looked at her, his eyes glittering, his mouth turned up in a small, triumphant smile- he looked as smug as if he had just swallowed the proverbial canary. Madiya's stomach gave a sickening lurch- quite suddenly, her hunger vanished.  
  
Blessed Goddess, she thought frantically. He knows. He knows everything. Goddess, what was I thinking? I never should have told that story-  
  
"Now, what was it he said? Oh, yes. 'Surely wisdom is not worth more than rubies.' That is certainly the inverse of the usual proverb."  
  
"As you said, Lord Gríma, Mahsin was a fool. He died for it," she answered harshly.  
  
"Which is only right and proper. Now, you have been entertaining Lady Éowyn with stories all evening. It is now my turn, Lady Madiya, to entertain you. Know you the story of the Rubies of Rohan, those jewels that my lady Princess wears this evening?"  
  
"No, my lord," said Madiya, although this of course was not entirely the truth.  
  
"Then, I shall tell you. It is a fascinating legend, and one quite particular to the People of the Mark."  
  
With an elegant gesture, Lord Gríma picked up his chalice, and sipped from it, the throat above his collar gleaming argent, even in the burnished glow of the candlelight. He set it down, with an equally studied movement; and, sure he had his audience's attention, he began his tale- not in the snide and cunning drawl he usually affected, but in the somber, rolling, majestic fashion of Rohan's ancient bards.  
  
"Know you, my lady, that Éowyn, sister-daughter to Théoden, is not the first noblewoman of that name to dwell upon the fertile earth of Rohan. Her namesake was the first Queen of this country, and the first shield- maiden too; she was Éowyn daughter of Healfbrand, later wife and cup-bearer to Eorl son of Léod, the great king who founded this house. Éowyn Healfbrand's daughter was not only the fairest of the daughters of the Éothéod, or the Horse-People, as my people were called in those days, she was the bravest too, and sure and strong with the sword and spear.  
  
"Now, as you might be aware, Lady Madiya, it came to pass that Cirion, Steward of Gondor, required the help of the People of the Horse. And it also came to pass that Eorl Léod's son, the Éothéod-Lord, heard his pleas and battled alongside him as a spear-friend and sword-brother, against the orcs and the Balchoth hordes at the Battle of Celebrant's Field. And his wife, Éowyn Healfbrand's daughter, fought alongside him, a sword-sister; her blade flashing in the fray, she was both most beautiful and terrible to behold..."  
  
His hands closing around the chalice-stem, Lord Gríma blinked; and he stared at Princess Éowyn with amazement as if the ancient queen herself had suddenly materialized before him- blinding as the sun and merciless as a goddess. Éowyn had made sure to keep her face a blank, courtly cipher, but Madiya could see how, under the table, her hands trembled.  
  
"Pray go on, Lord Advisor," she murmured. "Do not leave our guest in such suspense."  
  
His eyes flickering down to his plate of food, the small dark man at last seemed to recollect himself.  
  
"And upon that fateful day," he continued, "on the blood-soaked battle- ground of Celebrant, Éowyn saved the life of Cirion Boromir's son. It was an orc who had emerged from the depths of Hithaeglir who almost caused the death of Gondor's Steward; but with fleet steed and shining sword, Haelfbrand's daughter flew down and sliced the brute in twain. For the battle prowess rendered by Eorl, Lord of Éothéod, for saving Gondor against the flood of the orc-beasts and the Balchoth, Cirion swore unto him the gold-green fields of Calenardhon, making him King of the land that the world now names Rohan. Whereas to his wife, the gold-haired warrior Éowyn, Cirion granted unto her that most priceless collar of jewels, the Rubies of Mirrian, that had been given to the Steward's family by the dwarves of Khazad-dûm for some boon now lost to the mists of time, in the most ancient of days when Númenor still rose above the waves. Thus the Rubies came to the Kingdom of Rohan, at the very moment of its birth."  
  
Lord Gríma then spread his hands, breaking the tale's spell. His bardish storytelling was clearly at an end; and Madiya felt that somehow she could breath again. Indeed, she felt so disoriented she wondered if she'd had Elfwyn lace her up too tightly. But how marvelously the advisor spun a story! She wagered he could keep even the crowds at the Court of Sellers enthralled...  
  
But she only allowed herself to raise a single brow, as if she only found the recital to be slightly amusing. "Truly, my lord, it is as they say. You do have a mesmerizing tongue!"  
  
"Why- thank you, Lady Madiya." He glanced at her sharply. "Did you perchance enjoy my tale?"  
  
"As the poets say, I have quenched my thirst as the fountain of your knowledge. The gods willing, may it ever and always flow with the water of wisdom and the stream of sagacity."  
  
"Elegantly put, my lady. In fact, I am almost persuaded you meant it. However... as I was saying," he went on with his familiar irony, "it is not for nothing that these jewels are sometimes called the Fortune of Rohan, or Éowyn's Luck. I even hear that some peasants believe that as long as we have the Rubies, the forces of Mordor shall not overtake us."  
  
"It is not mere stones, Lord Gríma," said Éowyn angrily, "but the courage of our warriors and the strength of our horse."  
  
"Perhaps. But let us not discuss matters of politics in front of Lady Madiya. She assures me she dislikes them intensely. Is that not so?" He raised a non-existent eyebrow, as he began to delve daintily into his venison with his bone-white fingers. Meticulously, he tore off a piece of meat, and placed it in his mouth- unlike most of the Rohirrim, he chewed with his mouth closed. In fact, his manners were exquisite enough to put a Bozishnarod lordling to shame. Madiya watched him eating, as if hypnotized. Quite remarkably, she even felt herself beginning to blush.  
  
"You are silent, Lady. Do you not find the Rubies remarkable?"  
  
"Yes," answered Madiya uncomfortably.  
  
"Do you not think they are the marvels of Rohan?"  
  
"I-" Éowyn shot her a strange look, which alarmed Madiya to no end. "I think," she said quickly, "that Rohan's true marvels are not mere stones, my lord, as the Princess said. They are nothing compared to this country's brave men and glorious horseflesh."  
  
"Well-spoken, Lady Madiya!" said Éowyn happily.  
  
But Gríma just smirked. "Yes, my princess. She is extremely well-spoken, is she not? But I could not help noticing, even from the shadows, the gaze of admiration that your dear friend was directing towards the Rubies."  
  
At that, Madiya clutched the folds of her skirt so tight that her knuckles grew white, but Éowyn's face became stony.  
  
"What exactly are you trying to say, Lord Gríma?"  
  
"Nothing, your Highness. Merely that Lady Madiya has... exquisite taste."  
  
"So she does!" Éowyn lifted her head defiantly. "I am delighted to make her acquaintance."  
  
"As are we all." And he turned, deliberately, to Madiya. Although he bestowed upon her a courtly smile, his eyes were like chips of ice. Madiya's heart was racing, but she told herself sternly to be calm. After all, the princess did not trust the advisor; as it was, she could barely stand his presence. She was not going to listen to a word he said. But, she thought, her brain whirling frantically, he might try to stop her, in his own way. Or even take the Rubies from her once she'd stolen them. He was working for Théoden, but in the pay of Saruman as well; Wormtongue was obviously the sort of man who liked to keep his fingers in many pies at once. Her knew her game, and the Goddess only knew what his next move would be.  
  
She allowed herself to smile upon her royal hostess. "Your Highness, I am delighted to make your acquaintance as well."  
  
The princess smiled back at her, his eyes bright with genuine pleasure. But Gríma interjected smoothly- "I should think that anyone should be delighted to make the acquaintance of Éowyn Éomund's daughter, Princess of the Riddermark."  
  
Éowyn gazed down at her plate, and began to cut up her meat. "That is your opinion, sir."  
  
"Indeed it is. When I was last in Minas Tirith- for, as you may not know, Lady Madiya, I was once Rohan's ambassador to the court of the White Tower, and have on several occasions been sent back as emissary- I had the pleasure of informing Lord Baudouin of the princess's ever-increasing beauty. Know you Lord Baudouin, Lady Madiya?"  
  
"I know of him," said Madiya. Indeed, one of her friends in the thieves' guild had stolen one of his prize thoroughbreds on a dare.  
  
"I would think you would have heard of him," Gríma purred, clasping his hands upon the table. "Lord Baudouin is a most powerful official of the court, and one of the Steward Denethor's most trusted friends. Indeed, a gracious and estimable fellow. We were sipping wine, of a most venerable vintage, in the long gallery of his mansion, when we were having this discussion. In fact, his Lordship was most curious at why the Princess of Rohan was as yet without suitors for her hand."  
  
Éowyn's knife clattered as she dropped it onto the table. "Perhaps, Lord Gríma, in times of trouble, there are more important things to worry about than marriage!"  
  
"Perhaps there are, your Highness. Perhaps there are." His hooded eyes lingered upon her. "Yet it does not change the fact that most young ladies of your age are betrothed- or are mothers even."  
  
At the mention of motherhood, an alarmed expression crossed Éowyn's face. Feeling more than a twinge of sympathy, Madiya spoke up. "My lord, it is not that uncommon for a lady to wait for marriage. I am twenty-five, and unmarried."  
  
"Indeed!" He turned his pale gaze towards her. "And your family is not concerned?"  
  
"No. Well, maybe a little bit," she said, smiling. "You look surprised, my Lord."  
  
"I am surprised," he said, "that you would care to mention your age. I thought ladies had a horror of revealing such... private information."  
  
Madiya lowered her eyes. She thought suddenly that she could sit there all day, just listening to him. His voice, dryly melodious, brushed against her flesh like cobwebs. "It is very little, Lord Gríma. As you see, I am not a withered husk just yet."  
  
Even she was taken aback by how flirtatious she sounded. Gríma just blinked. "You are scarcely that..."  
  
"Scarcely what, my lord?" she teased.  
  
"Scarcely," he said thickly, the words almost sticking in his throat, "a...withered husk."  
  
His hand convulsively twisted around the stem of his chalice, and drank deeply. As Madiya watched him, watched him press his lips against the metal brim and swallow the mead, she knew abruptly what she wanted to do. Perhaps he was a repulsive worm, a creature that never saw the sun, a groveling beast with its belly pressed into the earth. But even the thought of that didn't stop this sudden feeling of hunger, blossoming and curling deep within her body.  
  
What did she have to lose? she thought. After all, Gríma already knew she was after the Rubies. Perhaps, she told herself cynically, if she took him into her bed, he would be so sated- so ridiculously grateful- that he would offer her less of a threat. After all, he did not seem the sort of fellow with much experience under his belt. And no matter where she traveled in the world, men would always be men.  
  
At the very least, she thought with dark humor, the expression on his face would be priceless.  
  
With that thought in mind, she removed the slipper from her right foot, with great care.  
  
"You are too kind, Lord Gríma. Of course, my family despairs of me at times-"  
  
And she pushed her foot under the thick folds of his robes.  
  
"They sometimes tell me that I am simply too... forward for my own good."  
  
Lifting a limb, she dragged her toes upwards, against his leg's cool flesh. He shuddered, involuntarily, but of course Madiya, above the table, only appeared the picture of innocence.  
  
"Although I am of the opinion -"  
  
As she wiggled her toes lewdly against his kneecap, she was gratified to see that his face had frozen completely.  
  
"...That women who allow themselves to wait for marriage, are perhaps those possessing unusual independence and strength of mind." She turned slightly to Éowyn and smiled, as she continued massaging the flat of her foot against the worthy councilor's leg. "Princess Éowyn certainly fits into that category, as I do, I think. We shall marry, but only when the time is right. Is that not so, your Highess?"  
  
Éowyn returned her smile. "It is so, Lady Madiya."  
  
Somewhere, deep in his throat, Lord Gríma made a choking noise. Éowyn glanced at him oddly. "I agree," he said finally, with some effort. His face had become the most rigid of masks, as if he was doing his best to use the utmost restraint. "She does possess- much independence- and strength of mind!"  
  
"I knew you could see it my way," said Madiya sweetly. And as she continued to rub her foot against his naked leg, she felt, banked deep within her, a rising heat, which had little to do with the stuffiness of the hall, or even the fire blazing away in the middle of the room. She was only a little surprised to realize how much she was enjoying this. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by images of his waxen lips, and a red tongue emerging, snake-like- his beautiful pale hands caressing her darker breasts- and his slim cold white body thrusting, over and over again, into hers. Not to mention, she thought breathlessly as her cheeks flamed, if she seduced him, he would very likely assist her in her theft of the necklace. Perhaps he could even help her out of Edoras, in a way which would not require scaling the palisades. Men, no matter how clever, always could be led by their cocks-  
  
But before she could get completely carried away with this manner of thinking, Lord Gríma kicked her foot away. As calmly as she could manage under the circumstances, Madiya began to dissect the roasted capon that was lying upon her plate, but not before she saw his eyes narrow murderously. The king's advisor looked as if would gladly take her neck between her hands and wring it the very life out of it, as the cooks had done to the bird she was now eating with such diligence. Slowly, Madiya's lust- befogged brain recovered, and she began to wonder with some horror what she had been thinking. Bed- that? She concentrated on ripping off the shreds of meat, until all that was left was a denuded bone. Better she take a viper to her bosom!  
  
She hastily resolved to remain true to her original plan. Unfortunately, the idea of completely avoiding Wormtongue was becoming less likely with every passing minute. But somehow she had to. Otherwise, she might fail- or be completely exposed.  
  
And the thought of either of those two things happening made her feel sick to the pit of her being.  
  
Abruptly, she made a decision, and leaned over to whisper in Éowyn's ear. "I'm suddenly feeling quite poorly. Do you not find yourself also coming down with a headache?"  
  
At that, Éowyn's green eyes became bright indeed. "Now that I think of it- "  
  
"What," Lord Gríma rasped, "are you two ladies whispering about?"  
  
The princess stood up abruptly. "That we feel somewhat ill, Lord Gríma, and that we wish to retire. Perhaps there is something in the food- or the air- which disagrees with us. So, if you will permit us, we shall bid you good evening."  
  
Madiya rose as well, barely nodding at Lord Gríma, who, with his tight mouth and flared nostrils, was clearly livid- yet he remained rooted to his seat, as if nailed there. As they sailed off, Éowyn took her hand. "My dear Lady Madiya, you are quick-witted as the marvelous Morgiana, to think of a way out of that intolerable situation. I just loathe conversing with that- snake!"  
  
"I could tell, your Highness." She chuckled. "So I don't think you have a future in diplomatic negotiations."  
  
"Very likely not." And as they walked into the shadow of the pillars, away from the curious glances of the dining throng, Éowyn's grasp on her hand grew tighter. "Now, Lady Madiya, you must tell me," she said, low and intense. "What in Oromë's name was going on back there? You had the most peculiar look on your face."  
  
Madiya froze. Her mind whirled frantically. "Your Highness," she stammered. "I am reluctant to tell you, but-"  
  
"But what? You can trust me, Lady Madiya, I swear by all the gods!"  
  
"Lord Wormtongue-" And as she closed her eyes, she pressed a hand to her bodice, as if overcome. "I believe he has- designs upon my person!"  
  
At that, Éowyn's eyebrows shot up near her hairline. "So that's why he kept staring at you!"  
  
"Yes," said Madiya. "Can you believe it? When he escorted me to my rooms, he propositioned me!" Had he actually propositioned her in the way Eowyn had been assuming, she was not entirely sure how she would have reacted. "It was only the presence of your noble brother which saved me from any further- ah- gallantries."  
  
The princess gritted her teeth. "Why am I not surprised?" she burst out. "That- abominable worm! That conniving, manipulative reptile! I did mark it odd that he kept gazing upon you and not upon myself-" And she stopped short.  
  
Madiya stared at Éowyn. She fought to keep a smile from spreading all over her face. "Why, your Highness," she said innocently. "Why do you stop like that?"  
  
A slow rosy blush consumed Éowyn's fair northern complexion. "Pardon me, my friend. I did not mean to sound that way..."  
  
Madiya pretended ignorance. "Sound what way, your Highness?"  
  
Éowyn's blush deepened, until it seemed that she was crimson from her forehead to her bosom. "Sound as if I missed his attentions!"  
  
"You miss his attentions, your Highness?"  
  
"Certainly not!" she snapped. "I- I wish he would disappear, and never cross my path again!" She seemed all of a sudden unable to meet Madiya's eyes. "He constantly haunts my steps, and persists in ogling me like a moonstruck calf. Surely you have noticed that by now!"  
  
"I have, your Highness. But I am curious about something- you must forgive my impertinence." She folded her arms across her chest. "In the past, were you, perhaps, ever kind to him?"  
  
Éowyn's eyelashes fluttered down, to brush her cheeks. "Yes," she mumbled. "Yes, I was."  
  
"In what way?" Madiya asked gently.  
  
Éowyn gazed off into the musty upper reaches of the hall, at the rust and gold horse tapestries dangling in the rafters. Her eyes took on a far- away look, and an expression of old, indescribable grief stole over her face.  
  
"It was after the death of my mother and father," she said at last. "I was seven, and we had to leave our old home in Aldburg, to live with our uncle the king in the capital." She watched the cheery antics of the banqueters with a sad, abstract air. "That was when I met Gríma, son of Galmod. At the time, he was only a junior scribe. You would have hardly recognized him, Lady Madiya. He was such a rough, awkward, gangly young man- literally all bones and skin. Everyone used to joke that his mother had cuckolded his father- the most notorious brute in all Edoras- with some wild Dunlending from the hills. He always seemed so miserable. Always at right angles with himself. I suppose I- I just felt sorry for him."  
  
"Perhaps, your Highness," Madiya said softly, "he also felt sorry for you."  
  
Éowyn's eyes flew up again, startled. "Sorry- for me?"  
  
"Well," said Madiya, "you were an orphan. What's more, you had been forced to leave all your friends- the home of your childhood- behind." She thought of how she and her mother had left Umbar, on the run from creditors, when she had been scarcely eight. "It's very hard," she said with feeling, "to leave your home, when you're young."  
  
"I- I guess I never thought of it that way before." Éowyn's eyes lowered again, and there was an uncomfortable silence. "That's true," she admitted. "I was- very lonely. Éomer- I loved him, but he was running around with older boys. Four years makes a great deal of difference at that age, you know." She sighed.  
  
"But Gríma- he was so much older than me, but with him I never felt like I was getting underfoot. I know that children are easily impressed, but I really used to think that he was the wisest person in the world. Even more so than the king and all the graybeards on his counsel. Sometimes he and I would meet and talk by the flowered funeral-mounds, near the road outside the city walls. He would tell me stories, just like a bard, about the kings and queens of eld, and all the great deeds of sword and song..."  
  
"Like that story of your ancestress Éowyn- the story of the Rubies of Rohan!"  
  
"Yes." Her voice was barely audible as she put her hand to her throat, against the blood-colored gems. "That was one of my favorites."  
  
"He still tells it beautifully," Madiya murmured.  
  
Éowyn looked up then and said, almost desperately, "But that was such a long time ago!"  
  
"Lord Gríma, my lady, seems to be the sort with a very long memory."  
  
"Yes." Éowyn's face convulsed, as if in pain. "But he was so young- and- and pitiable then. Now, he has become... that." And the two of them glanced back simultaneously at the figure of the councilor, a stark black silhouette against the flickering hearth-fire.  
  
"No doubt he had a hard life, your Highness-"  
  
Éowyn's jaw tightened. "We have all had hard lives, Lady Madiya. Now I know his life was harder than most. It was nothing any sane man would envy. But our lives are, after all, only a result of the choices we make. He could," she continued forcefully, "have surmounted what life had given him! He could have become great! But instead ....he has become someone I can hardly bear to look at. Someone boneless. Weak. A worm." Her eyes narrowed to slits. "And now he has thrown in his allegiance to the dark.... with Mordor. With the very orcs who killed my father!" She pressed her hand against her eyes, shaking.  
  
"And for that," Éowyn finished thickly, "I shall always hate him. I shall hate him until breath leaves my body."  
  
Madiya thought she saw tears in her eyes, but if they were there they were wiped away quickly. "Forgive me," said the princess, attempting to regain her composure. "I have no right to- to burden you with my foolish grief."  
  
"My lady," cried Madiya, "your grief is most certainly not foolish! You called me friend. Is that not what friends do for each other? Listen to the other's sorrow, and provide comfort?"  
  
Éowyn stared at her, and tears began to streak in earnest down her cheeks. The impenetrable and icy princess had vanished; all Madiya saw before her was a scared, vulnerable girl with disheveled hair and red-rimmed eyes. "Lady Madiya," she said hoarsely. "I- I."  
  
"This is certainly past the time for formalities," she scolded. "Just plain Madiya will do."  
  
"Thank you, Ma- Madiya," Éowyn choked. Madiya thought of offering her a handkerchief; then thought better of it and just embraced her instead. At first, Éowyn was stiff as an oak board; but she soon relaxed, and even sobbed a little bit on her shoulder.  
  
At that moment, Madiya stole a look at the rubies that garlanded the Rohanian girl's neck, and all of a sudden felt lower than the lowest cockroach. It was then that the unorthodox thought crossed her mind that she could always leave without taking anything. It wouldn't be the end of the world. There were, after all, other gems to steal.  
  
But then- like she was being stabbed in the gut- she felt again that sharp desperate feeling of **want.** The rubies were so round, so delicious, so red and glowing, like distant dying stars or the last lit embers in a brazier. They were calling out to her, weren't they, this ancient heirloom of the House of Eorl- for her to fondle, and caress, and drape about her like scarlet grapes from the vine-  
  
And she looked up, and saw Gríma Wormtongue, from across the hall, gazing impassively at her and the princess. And she thought, with that same sudden stab of wanting, that his eyes, too, looked like jewels- fine and blue and translucent as water- and she thought fleetingly of how beautiful they would look, taken out of his head, and hung in a setting about her neck.  
  
*************************************************** A/N: Tolkien intended the people of Rohan to be largely Beowulf-era Anglo- Saxons, although quite a lot of the Rohirrim architecture and costumes in the film (esp. Éowyn's) tend to be of a far later period, like the twelfth century. (An understandable aesthetic decision, as the Anglo-Saxon gowns of the dark ages do bear, as Madiya comments, a close resemblance to belted feed-sacks.) I'm imagining the culture of Rohan to be something of a post Battle of Hastings Anglo-Saxon culture, while Minas Tirith has a more of a courtly, elegant thirteenth-century culture. The "bold-coat" Madiya mentions is a "cotehardie" (which means "bold-coat" in medieval French). The cotehardie became fashionable in the late thirteenth, early fourteenth centuries. It is probably one of the first examples in western Europe of a truly body-conscious fashion.  
  
The customs of the feast, as depicted in this chapter, also tend to be more early medieval than Anglo-Saxon. 


	7. Chapter the Seventh

A/N: Hi everyone- thanks again for all the lovely reviews. Ozma, your comments are always a delight to read! Sus, I'm really pleased you love this so much. Here's the "rating changing" chapter I mentioned to you earlier. (And yes, Electra, I think "writhing" is an excellent word to use, especially considering the tone of this scene!) So, without further ado...  
  
  
  
**Chapter the Seventh- In Which Our Heroine and the Advisor Come to a Definite Understanding.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Practically glowing with satisfaction, Madiya left Éowyn's room. Whilst conversing with her, she had seen the princess unclasp the Rubies with her own white hands, and place them in an oaken casket that lay on a table underneath her window. Now that she knew where they were, it would be ridiculously easy for her to walk off with them later tonight. The gods must indeed be smiling upon her!  
  
Walking back to her chambers through a damp dark corridor lit only by smoky, flickering torches, Madiya rubbed her hands and practically chuckled. Even the dismal surroundings of this cold northern stronghold could not dampen her high spirits, and she savored images of her future fortune like a rich honey cake.  
  
She thought, I shall take the necklace, break it up, and fence it in Minas Tirith, piece by precious piece. This time next year, I shall be back in the sunbaked lands of the Raj, and I'll live in a palace and dress in fine silks like the greatest of noblewomen. I'll be so rich I'll be able to spit in Lady Balroubar's face. Heh, maybe I'll even bribe the city guard to throw that high-born whore into prison, where she tried so hard for so many years to put me. And Madiya grinned with delight at the thought of finally being able to humble Lord Ahmaadi's arrogant wife, who had done her best to make five years of Madiya's life an absolute nightmare.  
  
Yet- despite her good mood- when she reached the guest quarters, and gently swung open the door, her thievish instincts began screaming at her in high alarm.  
  
Something- or someone- was waiting for her inside.  
  
Madiya peered into the room, her eyes slowly adjusting from the rough, burnished glow of the torches to the moonlight that streamed like banners of cool silk through the window-shutters. She could see nothing among the jumbled shadows; but as she stood there, hovering alert on the threshold- she recognized a strong sweet musk she had smelled once before, when she was traveling along the Great West Road, a day or so from the Druadan Forest.  
  
She had been traveling, not on a horse or in a fine carriage, but by her usual humble method of "riding the shank's mare." She had been walking all day, and she was splattered with mud, her feet bone-weary. But she had forgotten her tiredness when she smelled that delectable scent. So rich, so earthy, so mouth-meltingly delicious; it practically picked her up and breathed new life into her dusty carcass.  
  
Now, she was not in the middle of a prosperous town or village, where one might expect a plump miller's widow or fat burgher's lady to be sporting a fashionable musk. But there were farms about, and Madiya supposed that it was not out of the question that some farmer's wife, in an outburst of frivolity, would have bought such a fragrance from a wandering peddler. And the more she breathed it in, the more she wanted it; and she became determined to find its source, and if at all possible, steal a bottle of that tantalizing perfume.  
  
It took a while for Madiya to locate the source, but found it she did, some yards behind a nearby stable. Coming from the rotting corpse of a crow. She remembered how she had stared at the blood-soaked feathers, the decomposing flesh, and the mass of flies swarming greedily upon it. The strange thing was that- even while she was staring at the dead loathsome thing- she still found its smell to be unutterably appealing. She had stood there for some time, wondering, in a bewildered way, why it was that death and sweetness so often went together. The crow that had once flown so free and black in the sky was now, by some fatal accident, feeding the rich loam of the earth. Perhaps in a year if she came back to this spot, she would see the delicate white sprays of ever-memory blossoming.  
  
Madiya clutched the side of the door so hard her knuckles grew white. She knew who was in the room. It was Lord Gríma. Of all the people she had ever met, only he would have the exact same scent as the thing that had drawn her so inexorably on the road to Edoras. She thought, dizzily. I could walk away, I could go back to Éowyn's chambers. but there was something in her that wanted to go in. The same part of her mind that delighted in the perfume of rotting crow hungered to be in his presence once more.  
  
At last, she stepped into the room. Her eyes had adjusted to the cool darkness, but she couldn't make out where Gríma was hiding himself. He's probably behind the door, waiting for me to shut it, she thought with cynical amusement. That would be just like him.  
  
Indeed, when Madiya shut the door, she barely had time to take a breath before Gríma pounced. She whirled around to see how the moonlight glinted off the lank and inky locks, and how his face- contorted with rage- was the ghostly color of a moon-washed sepulchre. His jewel-like eyes glittered, and the sweet succulent scent of decomposition overwhelmed her; indeed she felt almost faint as he pushed his face accusingly into hers.  
  
"Whore," he hissed. "Trollop. Filthy Haradan bitch!"  
  
"Haradan I am, and bitch I may be, my lord," she replied as levelly as she could. "I will take that as a compliment, as men often use 'bitch' when they encounter a woman with any shred of personality. But filthy I am not. I daresay I have bathed more recently than you."  
  
"Do you think to play with me?" With that he practically yanked her arm of her socket. "I know your game. Not a lady at all, are you? Only a common street thief. I am of half a mind to reveal your lies before the entire court."  
  
"You are hardly one to speak of lies, my Lord advisor," Madiya scoffed, although her heart sped up like a festival drum at his closeness. She thought with some excitement- I would hardly call it coincidence, that every time we argue, we end up touching. First his hand on my chin- then my foot up his leg- I suppose if he doesn't throw me into the dungeons, or if I don't bury a dagger in his side, we might easily end up making the beast with two backs. She smirked at that- and felt her vitals growing hot at the thought.  
  
"And perhaps you are even less of a one to speak poorly of prostitution. I wonder," she continued tauntingly, "how you were able to rise so very high in the service of the king? I think a man with the name Wormtongue might be capable of anything. Do tell me sir; are fine words and persuasion the only gifts your tongue possesses, or are you similarly talented with-ah- oral lechery?"  
  
At that his face slackened, and his grip on her arm loosened. His lips parted slightly in surprise, and upon seeing them glistening damply, Madiya knew- in a flash of utter certainty- what she wanted to do.  
  
Quickly, she pushed the councilor against the wall. Not only was he slightly built and scarcely taller than her, but surprise was definitely on her side. And before Gríma had time to properly react, Madiya seized his face within her hands and latched her mouth onto his. Sucking, biting his lips voraciously, she plunged her tongue past his teeth and deep down his throat. From shock or lust, he moaned- and she suddenly felt, welling up within her, a ferocious desire to devour him, swallow him, sink her claws deep into his flesh and suck all the juices out of him-  
  
Suddenly he regained his ability to move and shoved her away, so hard she stumbled. He stared at her, panting, his eyes huge with a mix of panic and outrage, and his lips still moist with her saliva.  
  
"How dare you," he gasped desperately. "What- what do you take me for, woman!"  
  
"I take you for a man, of course." In mild exasperation, Madiya put a hand on her hip. "A man who has made it more than evident that he would not be averse to a fair bout of bed-sport!"  
  
He made some attempt to recover his sneering elegance. "Lady Mad- well, I need not persist in such address since it is more than evident you are no lady. You mistake me," he went on with venom, "if you think me some common soldier who is easily bent to a wiles of a mere whore."  
  
She scowled. "I'm no blushing maiden, my lord, but I would hardly call myself a whore. I lie with a man because I want to, not so I can refill my coffers. Which is more than you can say of any true-born Lady who marries for coin or rank rather than desire!"  
  
At that, he blinked. The expression on his face was simultaneously suspicious and confounded- as if he were trying to grasp the idea, obviously incredible to him, that a woman might actually think him desirable. Madiya imagined that there hadn't been too many females (or males, for that matter) in Edoras who had found Lord Gríma an attractive prospect. She'd wager that the taste of most women here ran to men like Éomer, rosy-cheeked, flax-haired and virile- the more traditional manly and muscular sort. Which was fine in itself, but the failure to appreciate a different sort of beauty was the true mark of the small and ill-taught mind that could not appreciate something merely because it was out of the common way. Well, she thought with a shrug, the more fools the Rohirrim. But then, it did not surprise her; they were the sort of people who would shoot a white raven out of the sky merely on account of it not being black.  
  
"Then, pray tell," Gríma finally ground out, "what is your goal with this farce? If not payment, then what do you want?"  
  
"You know I want that necklace. As a servant of Saruman the White, would that not suit you as well? There is that legend that the kingdom will fall with the disappearance of the Rubies. Would not your lord and master be pleased with you for allowing such a calamity to befall Rohan?" She approached him again. "If you are so set on calling me a whore, perhaps you can look at this as a bribe for your silence." She smiled persuasively as she buried her hands in his fur collar- which, not coincidentally, she had been wanting to do for some time now. As she rubbed her fingers through the lush, textured sable, she delighted in his aggravated expression. "Yet," she purred, "I would have kissed you even if tomorrow we would be enemies."  
  
He seized her by the wrists and stepped towards her, glowering, trying his best to loom intimidatingly over her even though he was a mere inch taller than she. "And are these the manner of soft words you were showering upon Prince Éomer during your private conference? No doubt that young puppy would have been right pleased at your advances!"  
  
Why, Madiya thought, her lips curving up in a pleased smile, he sounded almost jealous! "Prince Éomer is a fine young man, my lord," she drawled, letting her amusement show in her voice, "but he does not excite that much admiration in me. For one thing, I find his conversational skills to be somewhat lacking."  
  
"I would hardly think that it would be his conversational skills that would interest you."  
  
She snorted. "If you think that, my lord, then you have the wrong measure of me." Detaching herself from his grip, she strolled over to the window and unlatched the shutters, letting in even more moonlight. Smiling at the cool caress of the moonbeams, she added in a teasing voice, "Your tongue, sir, is a rapier forged from the most exquisite steel- fine and sure and sharp. So sharp, in fact. if I pricked my finger with it, I am sure I would bleed." She turned back to him, her full lips curving up into a slow smile. Such a clever man, this Wormtongue, so masterful at manipulation; yet he seemed utterly unable to fathom her praise, and all its many levels of meaning. Indeed, as he stood before her, in his blinking innocent confusion, he was almost charming. "So you see, fencing with you requires my utmost skill and attention. So much so that I find it wonderfully... exhilarating."  
  
He was clearly still uncertain, but he hid it well with sarcasm. "Do you?"  
  
"Oh, yes," she purred. "You, my lord, are the only one who has divined my true purpose here. You are a more than a worthy opponent."  
  
The king's advisor was still rooted there, in the middle of the room, for once clearly at a loss for something to say. She walked up to him and said, "In fact, when the prince was in here- were you looking at me while I stood at the window?"  
  
He stared at her, as if she were some crafty djinn who had just emerged, unbidden, out of a magical ring. "I felt someone's gaze," she whispered. "I was wondering if it was you. And that was when I began to think of taking our duels to, perhaps, another arena. Now," she continued, raising her arms, "as the maid seems to have wandered off, won't you help unlace me?"  
  
Lord Gríma stuck his nose in the air, as if all of this were quite beneath him. "Playing the strumpet will not save you from being revealed as the thief you are."  
  
"By the Goddess!" Madiya rolled her eyes. "For an intelligent man, Gríma son of Galmod, you can be incredibly obtuse. Were my only goal to prevent you from telling all about the Rubies, I wouldn't kiss you, I'd just put my knife in your back! Now come! Shall you unlace me or are you too afraid that I might- ah- work my womanly wiles upon you?"  
  
His eyes narrowed at that. "Of all the people in the world, Madiya daughter of Nobody, I am certainly not afraid of you." Clearly simmering with indignation, he then began to unlace her. His black head bent down, he worked assiduously at the lacing, with his refined fingers gleaming like polished bone in the darkness. He unlaced one side, and then the other; all the while, she felt the dress loosen about her chest, and the grazing of his hands against her sides was like brushing against a bough of leaves in the forest.  
  
When he was done, she took his hands and held them against her cheek, slowly caressing the fingers, the nails, and the lines in the palm as if they were gloves of the finest silk. "Your hands are so beautiful," she murmured. "So cool to the touch. Like carvings from the ivory tusks of the mûmakil..."  
  
Not moving, not saying a word, Gríma just stared at her like one in a dream- but she marked how his breathing had become quick and shallow.  
  
Still in a state of numb unbelief, he silently watched her as she dropped his hands and stripped off her dress, leaving her in nothing but her shift. Smiling, Madiya went up to him, and with her own clever dark fingers, began toying with the ties of his outer robe, and his clasp of his belt. "What, a dagger?" she exclaimed, reaching back to touch the poorly hidden weapon. "You are prepared, aren't you, my lord?"  
  
"It's uh- a necessity of my position," he mumbled.  
  
"Perhaps, but I don't think it'll be a necessity for what awaits." Casually, she unbuckled the scabbard and tossed it aside; she then leaned closer and whispered in his ear.  
  
"For, my dear lord, you have that other weapon, which I pray you'll be plunging into me, up to the very hilt."  
  
At that, Gríma's strange blue eyes suddenly became wild. A choking, whimpering sound emerging from his throat, he caught her by the waist and- with the same hungry desperation she had recognized earlier in herself- began kissing her, eating her, devouring her as if his very life depended on it. The taste of his mouth and tongue was like overripe fruit- and she felt herself melting, clinging to him, gasping, uttering animal noises herself-  
  
They practically stumbled over each other getting to the bed- which was something that Madiya would have ordinarily found amusing, since after all, actual carnal intimacy bore so little resemblance to the chivalric romance of legend- but by now she was so aching to be impaled that she didn't care. Hastily, she removed her amulet and tugged off her shift, and sought to help Gríma with his boots and the fastenings on his robes. "Blessed Goddess," she laughed breathlessly, "you do wear a great many layers-"  
  
At last she was able to divest the advisor of his silks and velvets, tossing them to rest in a pile on the floor like a great black sleeping cat. The moonlight then shone, unimpeded, onto the cadaverous and angular planes of his naked white body.  
  
"Ah!" Madiya sighed, pressing her hands to her heated cheeks. It was just as she imagined.smooth and cool and pallid as temple marble, but bone- thin as the misanthropic hermits who dwelt in the caves to the north of her old city. As she thought of his body pressing into hers, gaunt white against voluptuous bronze, the thought was so arousing she could feel herself getting wet-  
  
But, suddenly self-conscious, he wrapped his arms about himself.  
  
"Now you see how... repulsive I am." He glared at her defiantly. "A body so hideous that even the whores of Edoras cannot bear to look upon it."  
  
"Well, whores have never been known for their taste."  
  
"Yet," he said flatly, "it is only whores who would have anything to do with me- and only because I bribe them heavily with gold."  
  
There was some silence. Madiya knew he wouldn't want her to pity him- but she couldn't help herself. She thought of what it must have been like, an ungainly young man of unusual intellect, living his entire life in this unforgiving windswept warrior country- who could only find a moment's pleasure- or forgetfulness- in the arms of the occasional prostitute. And in a city this small, they wouldn't be the sort of attractive professionals found in the better brothels- no, they would be the sort of poxy, flabby slatterns willing to spread their legs for a bit of extra income to spend on ale. She then thought of what Éowyn had said about Gríma's father- "the most notorious brute in all of Edoras." And that his mother had very likely gone off to find solace elsewhere. Her own life had been hard, but by the Goddess, she had had her mother- and after her mother's death, her friends to love and help her through her worst times and trials. Had Gríma had even that much? Or- and the realization made Madiya cold- had his whole life been as barren and chill as these plains hereabouts?  
  
"Is it- only with them that you have tasted love?" she finally asked, hesitantly.  
  
"Love!" He laughed then, but it was like the rattle from the throat of a dying man. "What is this nonsense you speak of? If such a thing even exists in this corrupt world, it makes a conspicuous point of avoiding an abhorrent snake such as myself!"  
  
At that, Madiya felt overwhelmed by a sudden rush of tenderness- an odd thing for her, certainly. "You are certainly not abhorrent," she said, putting her arms about the bony fragile body that he seemed to find so odious. "Far from it, I think..." And as she brushed back his hair, conscious of this strange man's vulnerability, she kissed his shoulder, because he seemed not to be defending that part so strongly.  
  
Yet when she tried to move higher, he only pushed her away. "Spare me your disgusting pity, woman. I would prefer to be hated." He glared at her, his eyes hard and glassily brilliant with self-loathing. "Are you so blind? Can you not see that my body is like a plastered wall, where vipers have crawled, and scorpions make their nests? Admit it. It disgusts you!"  
  
"No-"  
  
"It does!" Gríma's voice was thick, his eyes wide with paranoia. "And you planned this all this to humiliate me, you wretched whore!"  
  
For a moment, Madiya, taken aback, just gaped at him. Then- she exploded.  
  
"By the gods," she cried, springing forwards, "it's as if you don't want to lie with me at all- you just want to slither back to your little council chamber and plot and scheme revenge until all shreds of pleasure in this life have passed you by! Well, if you think I'm such a whore you can always leave- but before you do-" and she bared her teeth in a savage grin- "I'm going to make you so hard you won't forget it, not even when you lie moldering in a forgotten grave!"  
  
And she pounced upon him, raking her fingernails against his chest as she bit and clawed and kissed him, from his collarbone, down his torso and abdomen, and through the black curling thicket of his pubic hair to the white root of his cock. Yet her touch was delicate when she took that most sensitive part in her mouth, and with her open dusky lips began to lick and suck, savoring the musky, salty flavor.  
  
He gasped, shocked, agonized- and quite against his will he began to thrash about in his arousal. Her original intent had been to pinch the base of his cock and leave him in extremis, but the taste was so mesmerizing she quite forgot herself; she continued suckling him until with a groan he somehow tore himself away and ejaculated copiously over her shoulders, and neck and bosom.  
  
Madiya was dripping with the councilor's seed, but she merely smiled- she pressed her damp breasts against his chest and kissed him deeply, exploring the cavity of his mouth with her tongue, as he sat there, quivering, practically sobbing from these new exertions.  
  
"You see," she breathed at last, wrapping her arms about him like ivy, trailing her fingers down his back and his hips, "I am so terribly wicked. You will extract your revenge upon me, I trust?"  
  
He was still dazed. For a moment, he even looked like a child, lost and wandering in a city with which he barely had any familiarity. "Gods," he groaned at last. "What do you want?"  
  
"What do you think I want?"  
  
"The Rubies, of course, to slake your greed," he muttered, although she noted that he was not attempting to push her away.  
  
"True enough, but that is not the only thing I wish to slake." She looked him straight in the eye. "I also want you. Rather badly."  
  
"Would you explain to me, my lady, just why?" he asked, through gritted teeth.  
  
At first she wanted to say how weirdly beautiful he was, with his eyes of semi-precious stone, his eggshell skin, his curling oily night-black tresses and rasping musical voice; but just then she thought of another, perhaps more convincing way.  
  
"Very well, my lord, I shall oblige," said Madiya, and dropped her arms. In the best way she knew how, she reclined against the pillow and began to narrate, as if she were sitting fully clothed on a carpet in the bazaar, rather than naked in a bed with the most hated man in the kingdom of Rohan.  
  
"My lord...you who are so reluctant to believe that you are the delight of my eyes... you may not be aware that in my country, the snake is a creature sacred to both gods and men. Above all creatures, it is revered for its lithe grace, its subtlety, its closeness to the earth, and its marvelous ability to shed its skin. It is, in fact, the chosen consort of Manat, the Elder of the Three Goddesses- She who is the Lady of Fate, Daughter of the Moon, and Queen over fortune, time and the many mysteries of life and death. The high priestesses of her temples are all commissioned by duty to the Goddess to raise a sacred serpent- one as white as froth upon the waves of the sea, or the petals of lilies in the gardens of the Raj's own Sultana. This snake is tenderly raised by hand, upon the fairest food such as milk and cakes and white cheese; but it is also never permitted, except for certain ceremonies, to leave its black room in the labyrinthine depths of the temple complex. One can then see, when the high priestess performs these ceremonies, the goddess-snake coiled about her shoulders like a scaled rope of the purest alabaster. For this white goddess-snake- or the Manat Hi'a, as we call it- is not only the symbol of the temple, but a prophet as well; from whom the priestess, with proper incense and divination, may work out the future fate of the land.  
  
"And at the end of its long and glorious life," Madiya continued, "the Manat Hi'a is fed a saucer of poisoned milk. And in a special ceremony, it is cooked, and served to the high priestess upon a platter of silver, electrum, and various cabochons of infinite value."  
  
Gríma froze, with a muscle twitching in his cheek. He looked, for a moment, terrified. "They eat the- sacred serpent?"  
  
For a moment Madiya felt a thrill of sadistic pleasure at how thoroughly the pompous and overconfident advisor had been reduced to a child listening to a scary bedtime story. But then she remembered her pity for him. "It is said," she whispered, leaning forwards, gathering up a fingertip of his seed from her chest, "to be the most delicious dish in the world." And as she sucked on her finger lasciviously, his eyes, if possible, got even wider. "It is also said that as the priestess places each slice of white serpent-flesh into her mouth, she begins to understand all the workings of the world- even the language of the beasts of the earth, air and sea."  
  
She spread her hands at last, ending the tale.  
  
"Somehow," Madiya said finally, "you remind me of one of those goddess- snakes."  
  
His perplexed expression vanished, to be replaced by one of frustration. "So," he hissed, "you may cook and consume me when my usefulness is over?"  
  
"Oh no, that's much too long to wait, my lord." She gave him a carnivorous smile. "I would fain consume you right now." She leaned toward him, placing one hand predatorially on his thin, moon-pale thigh.  
  
Too caught to turn away but still wary, Gríma leaned away from her advance. "I know but little of the customs of the Haradrim. But in the North, a snake is always a vile, hideous creature, the sigil of the dark. That is what," he said with great bitterness, "I have always been among my people. The bright-haired horse-riding Rohirrim." That last, he almost spat.  
  
"Maybe they don't realize," Madiya said intensely, leaning still closer, "that- like the white snake in the black room- darkness and light are often sides of the same coin. And those who have been thus fashioned by the gods should be revered, not despised." Even if- she thought fondly to herself- they want to dawdle about with words when I am more than ready for action. She put out her other hand, and stroked the white flesh of his cheek with more gentleness than she could have thought possible. At that, he closed his eyes, trembling slightly.  
  
"You tremble, my lord," she murmured huskily. "Perhaps with anger? I have been very bad, after all. Very wicked."  
  
He gazed at her, bewildered.  
  
"Oh, yes. In fact, have you forgotten? I have humiliated you. Pleasured you against your will. I do so deserve to be punished."  
  
It took a moment for her invitation to sink in- she could almost see the wheels in his head turning- but when it finally did, then a smirk spread tentatively across his face.  
  
"Then so you shall be," said Gríma with an amused growl. "If that is your desire." And he pushed her roughly down into bed, her hair falling about her like thick black vines. "You depraved creature," he said softly. With his left hand he clasped her waist; with his right he began to lingeringly caress her breasts, belly and navel.  
  
Madiya's eyes dilated. "White-skinned snake!"  
  
"You flatter me, dear lady." And he bared his teeth then in a rather grim smile. "But never fear... I fully intend to make you suffer."  
  
With that, his right hand began to elegantly- and forcefully- play with the lips of her cleft. "Yes," she gasped, "I want you to make me suffer- most deliciously- yes, that's it- ah- ah!"  
  
Indeed the time for words had passed, and the time for action commenced. Amidst the sweaty battleground of the bed, his pale limbs against her dark ones, the two of them fought and thrashed and gasped, mouths and tongues and fingers exploring and devouring various orifices with the most aggressive abandon. And what the Lord Gríma lacked in experience, he more than made up in quickness and persistence. He licked her breasts, massaged her buttocks, and bit the soft inner part of her thighs; from there he moved to the heart of the hunt. With his snaky onyx tresses bent over her groin, he began to sinuously kiss and lick the lips and red nub of that lower mouth. As he went on, she felt herself becoming intolerably agitated; her lower extremities were all aflame; and when he stuck his tongue up there, worming it deep into her core, she almost shrieked-  
  
She wriggled helplessly, her legs spread, as he supped to his heart's content. When he returned to her mouth- his eyes of blue water now glittered wickedly- as if he seemed to be saying: 'See, Lady, I too can play your game just as well- if not better!'  
  
As he bent down and kissed her anew she tasted her juices on his tongue- yet with sudden perversity she bit his mouth, hard, and raked her nails against his back. As he gasped, distracted by the pain, she twisted around and propped herself up against his thighs. Casually, she began assessing his cock, as if she were at a shop and it were a costly bauble whose purchase she was considering. While he stared at her, his breath coming faster and faster, she smiled upon it with tender pleasure and approval; it was truly a fine weapon, not too large or small, hard as horn, yet smooth as silk-velvet and white as marble, with entwining bluish veins and the head a striking blue-cast rose. Like it was one of her dearest possessions- a precious stone she could not bear to be parted with- she cupped it, stroked it and kissed the quivering flesh with the utmost delicacy and sweetness.  
  
At such insupportable teasing, Gríma emitted a terrific groan and- with a strength she scarcely imagined he possessed- grappled her down, pinning her to the mattress. With his instrument thus primed and ready, he forthwith plunged into her with fury. Madiya found that the excitement she had felt before was nothing to this. Her entire body now felt as if it were plunged into a furnace; her arms limply clinging about his neck, she moaned; whimpered; begged him for mercy, yet- his face contorted like some blind hellbound demon- he did not cease. With final unrelenting fervor, he grabbed her by the buttocks and continued to ram into her again and again, until with one killing thrust he was near sheathed up to the guard, and the black nether hair on both of their bodies interwined. In exquisite agony, Madiya gasped and writhed, pinioned under him. Crammed and gorged and stirred beyond all bearings, she cried out- some wild inarticulate noise. Gasping himself, her crow-haired, corpse-browed lord- overpowered by ecstasy, and quite beyond any rational thought- at last came, jerking, melting, moaning, in her arms to his own little death.  
  
They collapsed panting and boneless with pleasure. Gríma fell exhausted to her side, while she stared at the ceiling, gasping, her arms and legs as limp as wet bedclothes. After the heat of pleasure, Madiya felt the cool rush of night air on her damp loins, and the warmth where her side met his. She didn't want to think; she couldn't think; she just wanted to lie there, luxuriating in the afterglow, feeling the semen trickle down her thighs, and listening to the deep ragged rhythm of his breath.  
  
When she did finally turn her head, she saw him looking at her- intently watching her expression. Although a look of wonder had suffused his face, there was something in his eyes that was inquisitive- even anxious.  
  
But when she smiled at him crookedly, tenderly- the anxiety disappeared. With one hand, he began to toy with one of her locks of wiry hair.  
  
"Is it possible," he asked at last, his eloquent voice hoarse, "if I might- stay the night?"  
  
The flicker of anxiety was there again; but she rolled over towards him. "The poets say," she whispered, "that there is no greater delight than to lie the night at your lover's side. I should be most upset if you were to go."  
  
At that, his entire countenance brightened. He smiled then, with a rare sweetness utterly devoid of his usual caginess and meanness, and he kissed her then- gently- as a lord would kiss his lady fair.  
  
Closing her eyes, Madiya returned the kiss with affectionate pleasure, while her brain busily whirled. Clearly, she wouldn't be able to walk off with the Rubies tonight as she originally planned. So, she'd have to stay in Edoras another day... but by the Triune Goddess, it was worth it!  
  
And the perverse little thought then crossed her mind that of all the murders and assassinations she had imagined for Lord Wormtongue, none were quite as personally satisfying as this death she had just now meted out. 


	8. Chapter the Eighth

**Chapter the Eighth- In Which Our Heroine Hones her Diplomatic Skills. **

As if emerging from a black ocean, Madiya slowly regained consciousness.

For a few moments, she lay there in a daze, not knowing where she was. Her head was foggy, and a nasty taste lingered in her mouth. Not only that, but her breasts, shoulders and thighs were sticky and crusty. She knew that she hadn't drank too much last night… but all in all, she felt quite disgusting, and direly in need of a wash.

Then slowly, surely, as her sluggish mind tried to think as quickly as it could, she realized just where she was. She was in her own guest room in Edoras; and as the dawn light shone through the windows, she saw that a black greasy head lay right between her breasts. She was pinioned to the bed, and she couldn't move.

As she realized just what she did, her stomach sank to her feet.

How, by all the gods, had it all happened? She knew, intellectually, that it only happened last night, but her tumble with the snaky councilor who now lay sprawled on top of her like she was a Trestian divan seemed centuries ago. Carefully, she tried to wiggle herself free without waking him; and after a few minutes, managed to free herself and place her feet on the icy floor. By the Goddess, she observed with a shudder, the entire front of her body was covered with dried semen, and her hair was a perfect rat's nest! She cursed herself and her penchant for getting into impossible situations.

_Madiya, you think you're so damned clever; you're so smug and sure of yourself; but why in the name of the Triune Goddess did you bed the most dangerous man in Rohan? What were you thinking?_

She paused and took a deep breath, her eyes stealing back towards her erstwhile bedmate. At the thought of how they had occupied themselves, she found herself sighing, grimacing and blushing at the same time.

_Well, darling_, she answered herself wryly_, knowing you, you did this because he_ was the _most dangerous man in Rohan._ And, as her mother used to say- it seemed like a good idea at the time!

For all her calculating nature, Madiya knew perfectly well that she still had the unfortunate tendency to jump, feet first, into situations that really required a bit more caution. She probably should not have thrown herself at Grima Wormtongue; but there was no use in crying over spilled wine, as the old proverb went. And it couldn't be said, she thought, that she didn't enjoy it. But now, as she glanced back at the inert form lying among the blankets, with the chill early light shining off his body like the sun off plaster, she had no desire to go back near him. All she wanted, she thought, her teeth chattering as she picked her shift off the floor, was to plunge into a scalding hot bath and scrub herself with a sponge and a thick bar of soap…

But as she pulled on her shift, a pair of white hands wrapped themselves about her waist and pulled her back towards the bed. Behind her, a honeyed, husky voice whispered:

"I bid you good morning, my beauteous Sultana of the Raj. Will you not tarry a little bit longer? For seeing you in all your glory has enthralled my senses once more."

Madiya turned around and stiffened. Gríma's hair, which last night had seemed like a mass of black serpents, now looked merely limp and oily; and his skin, which had seemed so alluringly, deathly pale, appeared this morning to be merely the color of uncooked porridge. Also, with the sun hitting his face, she noticed for the first time that, while one of his eyes was a very light blue, the other was a darker blue-gray, which only added to the asymmetrical oddness of his face.

"Uh, good morning, my lord," she said after a pause.

His hands dropped. His mismatched eyes were already narrowing with a sort of wary suspicion, and his lips pinched. "Well! You're up rather early."

"Oh," she blurted out nervously, "I'm feeling rather disheveled… and I desperately need a bath."

"Ah, yes. To wash away my filth, I assume?" There was a pause, and his eyes narrowed even further. "I take it that- since the sun is rising- you would like me to leave?"

Madiya opened her mouth, and closed it again. With a shiver, she realized that she treaded upon thin ice; that if she said the wrong thing, her newfound lover, so quick to take offense, would find a way to destroy her. Considering how anxious and fearful Rohan had become with all the recent orc attacks, Lord Gríma could merely mention the fact that she wore a hand-shaped amulet about her neck, and she could be thrown out, imprisoned or even killed…

So- despite the fact that her instincts were screaming at her to run away from this man as quickly as possible- Madiya sat down on the bed. Smoothing the crumpled linen of her shift with her hands, she carefully picked out the words in her head before she began.

"My lord," she said, "we have shared a bed this night, and surely I would not wish to wash away what pleased me so strongly just a few hours before. This is merely the way of women; I do not wish for you to see me in this state with my hair in tangles and my clothing wrinkled. Even my own mother, the Lady Manat be with her, woke up an hour before my father so she might bathe, lest he see her so unkempt in the morning light."

She could see the struggle within him, his suspicion warring with the desire to believe her. At last- to her relief- she saw his posture relax, and his features soften.

"Well, then my dear," said he graciously, "once you have completed your morning rituals, you may accompany me to the Great Hall, where we may break our fast, as is the custom."

As he reached forward to caress her arm, she cleared her throat. "But my lord, you are the king's advisor, a truly wise man. Do you wish for others to whisper that you have lain with a woman that you have only known for one day?"

Gríma stiffened again. "You are embarrassed to be seen with me…?" Somehow, this managed to be a question and a statement at the same time.

_Goddess help_ _me,_ Madiya thought desperately, _this is like navigating a rocky sea!_ She took a deep breath, summoning up all the diplomatic eloquence at her disposal.

"My lord, if I were embarrassed, which certainly I am not, I would remain as yet unfazed, for I shall be leaving Rohan very shortly; whereas you must walk the halls of this palace every day of your life. Would you truly care to hear the lowly mutterings of the servants as they gossip about the woman who left so quickly after she bedded you? Do you not think that they will say that you are the reason she left such haste? And," she added, "what would the Princess Éowyn think of all this?"

Gríma's eyes became slits. He surveyed her so intensely that Madiya found it hard not to squirm, like a felon under the gaze of an unforgiving magistrate.

"Well, my dear," he said sardonically, "you seemed to have mulled over this most extensively."

Clearly it was time to make a bold move. She leaned towards him, conscious that the drawstring of her shift was loose and provided an excellent view of her bosom. When she was only a few inches away from his lips, she said, her voice throaty and low:

"But my lord, being a suitable lover isn't possible without loving every aspect of a person, including their honor."

She then placed her mouth on his, and started to kiss him as if she really wanted to, as if she wasn't sore and crusty and generally in a foul temper. But when he responded convulsively, wrapping his fingers in her hair, the insistence and assiduousness of his lips and tongue reminded her how last night hadn't been a complete loss. _But_, she thought dizzily, _it's still a good thing I'm leaving soon…_

When she at last broke away from him, he gave a ragged sigh. "In that case, my lady, I shall depart so you may tend to your toilet. My eyes shall be able to feast upon you soon enough."

At that moment, his fingers twitched where they still gripped the coverlets, and his eyes flickered towards the pile of his clothes. With a slight smile she picked them up and passed them to him. "If you would," he rasped, "I should prefer it if you look away whilst I… make myself presentable."

"Yet if you should need any help with the fastenings, my lord-" Madiya replied, before he interrupted.

"Yes, yes. I shall call you if you are needed."

As if she was only a tiring maid! she wondered, amused more than irritated. As she turned away and examined the whorls of the wood grain on the opposite wall, she heard the rustle of wool, velvet, damask and tissue, sounding almost like a creature rousing itself from hibernation.

As the minutes passed, and all she heard was the soft whispers and susurrations of fabric, she gave into temptation and glanced over her shoulder. By this time, Gríma had donned all the layers of his elaborate attire, and was fussing with the ties that secured the tapered points of his sleeves over his hands. "You could not bear to wait until I was finished, could you?" he snapped, glaring down at her, as if his newly clothed state somehow added inches to his stature.

Madiya stared back at him. Somehow, while she had been looking away, he had become Lord Wormtongue again- armored in his silks and velvets- with the sun glinting off the silver and onyx of his medallion and belt. As she was still only in her shift, she felt somewhat at a disadvantage.

Yet she raised her chin anyway. For all his grandeur, she observed that in his haste he had not tied the front of his robe. Crossing over to him, she picked up the loose cords, dangling beneath the fur collar, and tied it into a neat little knot. Then, she sunk her fingers into the deep nap of the raven-black velvet, lifted her head, and pecked him quickly on the lips- which, she noted, were still warm.

"How fine you look," she murmured. "You must allow me to return the favor. Permit me, my dear lord, to set myself to rights, and you shall see me anon, within the Great Hall."

For a moment he gazed at her obliquely, with his odd-colored eyes. For all her cleverness, she had to admit she had no idea to what was passing through that brain of his; once robed, thought Madiya uneasily, the councilor was no longer the clinging bedfellow of hours before, whose emotions lay as naked as the rest of him.

Gríma sketched, then, a small bow.

"I count the minutes until I may be able to see you again, my lady," he whispered… and with that, withdrew. Indeed, after a moment it was if he had melted into the very shadows. His natural habitat, Madiya told herself cynically- given how poorly he looked in the full glare of day.


End file.
